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Joseph  and  Fanny 

— Joseph  Aitdrenvs  I,  p.  j^ 


THE      COMPLETE 
WORKS     OF 

HENRY     FIELDING 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE 
ADVENTURES  OF  JOSEPH 
ANDREWS  AND  HIS  FRIEND 
MR.    ABRAHAM    ADAMS 

VOLUME   I 


^ 


ILLUSTRATED 


P.    F.    COLLIER     &     SON 

NEW     YORK 


Copxriaht  190:i 
University  Press 


PR 


CONTENTS 

PAQB 

Introduction xv 

Preface xxix 

BOOK   I 

CHAPTER   ONE 

Of  writing  lives  in  general,  and  particularly  of 
Pamela  ;  with  a  word  by  the  bye  of  Colley 
Gibber  and  others 1 

CHAPTER    TWO 

Of  Mr.  Joseph  Andrews,  his  birth,  parentage,  ed- 
ucation, and  great  endowments ;  \vith  a  word 
or  two  concerning  ancestors 5 

CHAPTER   THREE 

Of  Mr.  Abraham  Adams  the  curate,  Mrs.  Slipslop 

the  chambermaid,  and  others 9 

CHAPTER  FOUR 
What  happened  after  their  journey  to  London      ,       15 

Vol.  1  1 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   FI'ST: 


PAOB 


The  death  of  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  with  the  affec- 
tionate and  mournful  behaviour  of  his  widow, 
and  the  great  purity  of  Joseph  Andrews     .     ,       18 


CHAPTER   SIX 

How  Joseph  Andrews  writ  a  letter  to  his  sister 

Pamela 23 


CHAPTER   SEVEN 

Sayings  of  wise  men.  A  dialogue  between  the 
lady  and  her  maid  ;  and  a  panegj^ric,  or  rather 
satire,  on  the  passion  of  love,  in  the  sublime 
style 29 

CHAPTER   EIGHT 

In  which,  after  some  very  fine  writing,  the  history 
goes  on,  and  relates  the  inter\'iew  between  the 
lady  and  Joseph  ;  where  the  latter  hath  set  an 
example  which  we  despair  of  seeing  followed 
by  his  sex  in  this  vicious  age 35 

CHAPTER  NINE 

What  passed  between  the  lady  and  Mrs.  Slipslop ; 
in  which  we  prophesy  there  are  some  strokes 
which  every  one  will  not  truly  comprehend  at 
the  first  reading 43 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER   TEN 

FAOB 

Joseph  ^vTites  another  letter :  his  transactions  with 
Mr,  Peter  Pounce,  etc.,  with  his  departure  from 
Lady  Booby 49 

CHAPTER   ELEVEN 
Of  several  new  matters  not  expected 52 

CHAPTER   TWELVE 

Q)ntaining  many  surprizing  adventures  which 
Joseph  Andrews  met  with  on  the  road,  scarce 
credible  to  those  who  have  never  travelled  in 
a  stage-coach 57 

CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

What  happened  to  Joseph  during  his  sickness  at 
the  inn,  with  the  curious  discourse  between 
him  and  Mr.  Barnabas,  the  parson  of  the  parish       6S 

CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

Being  very  full  of  adventures  which  succeeded 

each  other  at  the  inu 74 

CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

Showing  how  Mrs.  Tow-wouse  was  a  little  mollified ; 
and  how  officious  Mr.  Barnabas  and  the  sur- 
geon were  to  prosecute  the  thief:  with  a  dis- 
[viij 


CONTENTS 


PAOB 


sertation  accounting  for  their  zeal,  and  that  of 
many  other  persons  not  mentioned  in  this 
history 82 

CHAPTER   SIXTEEN 

The  escape  of  the  thief.  Mr.  Adams's  disappoint- 
ment. The  arrival  of  two  very  extraordinary 
personages,  and  the  introduction  of  parson 
Adams  to  parson  Barnabas 89 

CHAPTER   SEVENTEEN 

A  pleasant  discourse  between  the  two  parsons  and 
the  bookseller,  which  was  broke  off  by  an  un- 
lucky accident  happening  in  the  inn,  which 
produced  a  dialogue  between  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
and  her  maid  of  no  gentle  kind 103 

CHAPTER   EIGHTEEN 

The  history  of  Betty  the  chambermaid,  and  an 
account  of  what  occasioned  the  violent  scene 
in  the  preceding  chapter 112 


BOOK   II 


CHAPTER    ONE 


Of  divisions  in  authors 117 

[viii] 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   TWO 

PAQE 


A  surprizing  instance  of  Mr  Adams'  short  mem- 
oiy,  with  the  unfortunate  consequences  which 
it  brought  on  Joseph 121 

CHAPTER   THREE 

The  opinion  of  two  lawyers  concerning  the  same 
gentleman,  with  Mr.  Adams's  inquiry  into  the 
religion  of  his  host 129 

CHAPTER   FOUR 
The  histoiy  of  Leonora,  or  the  unfortunate  jilt     .     139 

CHAPTER    FIVE 

A  dreadful  quarrel  which  happened  at  the  inn 
where  the  company  dined,  with  its  bloody 
consequences  to  Mr.  Adams 164 

CHAPTER   SIX 
Conclusion  of  the  unfortunate  jilt 177 

CHAPTER    SEVEN 

A  verj'  short   chapter,  in  which  parson   Adams 

went  a  great  way 184 

[ix] 


CONTEiNTS 
CHAPTER  EIGHT 

PAGB 

A  notable  dissertation  by  Mr.  Abraham  Adams ; 
wherein  that  gentleman  appears  in  a  political 
light 189 

CHAPTER   NINE 

In  which  the  gentleman  discants  on  bravery  and 
heroic  virtue,  till  an  unlucky  accident  puts  an 
end  to  the  discourse 194 

CHAPTER    TEN 

Giving  an  account  of  the  strange  catastrophe  of 
the  preceding  adventure,  which  drew  poor 
Adams  into  fresh  calamities ;  and  who  the 
woman  was  who  owed  the  preservation  of  her 
chastity  to  his  victorious  arm 202 

CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

What  happened  to  them  while  before  the  justice. 

A  chapter  very  full  of  learning 210 

CHAPTER   TWELVE 

A  very  delightful  adventure,  as  well  to  the  per- 
sons concerned  as  to  the  good-natured  reader      221 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   THIRTEEN 


dissertation  concerning  high  people  and  low 
people,  with  Mrs.  Slipslop's  departure  in  no 
very  good  temper  of  mind,  and  the  evil  plight 
in  which  she  left  Adams  and  his  company  .     .     227 


[«] 


INTRODUCTION 

**  "W*      'W'AVE  you  any  more  of  Pamela,  Mr. 

I I    R.  ?    We  are  come  to  hear  a  little 

I  ■     more  of  Pamela." 

JtL  JL  So,  according  to  Richardson's  own 
story,  his  "worthy-hearted  wife"  used  to  speak 
every  evening  when,  accompanied  by  a  young  woman 
who  was  boarding  with  her,  she  visited  the  *'  little 
closet "  in  which  her  husband  was  composing  that 
work  by  which,  quite  undesignedly,  he  directed  into 
the  path  of  fame  one  of  the  very  greatest  novelists 
of  the  world,  Henry  Fielding.  The  story  of  how 
Richardson  did  so  has  been  told  again  and  again  ;  it 
is  found  in  every  history  of  English  literature ;  and 
because  knowledge  of  it  helps  to  an  understanding  of 
Fielding*'s  literary  development,  it  will  probably  con- 
tinue to  be  told,  and  it  is  worth  telling  here. 

Samuel  Richardson,  who  even  as  a  boy  had  been 
distinguished  for  letter- writing,  was  a  fat,  prosy 
printer  about  fifty  years  old,  when  certain  publishers 
urged  him  to  give  them  a  book  of  familiar  letters, 
which  should  be  useful  to  people  in  common  life. 
Richardson  decided  to  weave  the  letters  together  bj 
making  them  tell  the  story  of  a  pretty  servant-girl, 
Pamela  Andrews,  who,  after  many  adventures,  oiar< 
[xvj 


INTRODUCTION 

ried  her  master,  a  young  gentleman  who  had  tried 
in  vain  to  make  her  his  mistress.  The  result  was 
Pawe^,  published  in  1740.  It  met  with  such  favour 
that  the  next  year  Richardson  gratified  the  world 
with  a  continuation,  which  showed  the  heroine 
regarding  with  a  jealous  but  forgiving  eye  the 
attentions  that  her  husband  bestowed  on  a  certain 
countess,  or  relating  dull  moral  tales  to  her  children. 
In  spite  of  her  favourable  reception  one  hundred 
and  sixty  years  ago,  Pamela  cannot  make  us  feel 
to-day  the  charm  which  Richardson  unquestionably 
would  have  us  feel.  As  a  victim  of  persecution  in 
the  earlier  part  of  her  story,  she  succeeds,  thanks  to 
her  innocence,  in  exciting  our  sympathy ;  but  such  is 
not  the  case  when  she  has  triumphed  over  her  would- 
be  seducer.  So  far  is  she  from  showing  maidenly 
hesitation  when  marriage  is  offered  to  her,  that  after 
some  prudent  fears  of  deceit  through  a  mock- 
marriage,  she  fairly  jumps  at  the  chance  of  bettering 
her  social  position.  One  cannot  but  feel  that  Pamela 
has  preserved  her  virtue  for  the  sake  of  the  reward. 
To  all  intents  and  purposes  she  sells  herself;  only 
her  shrewd,  mercantile  sense  makes  her  name  as  her 
price  the  right  to  become  Mrs.  B.  The  same  sort 
of  calculating  virtue  is  apparent  in  most  of  her 
actions ;  though  always  satisfied  with  her  own  con- 
duct to  an  exasperating  degree,  she  apparently  has 
no  idea  of  doing  right  for  right's  sake.  In  the  con- 
tinuation of  her  history,  her  teaching  to  her  chil- 
dren (teaching  which  Richardson  plainly  approved) 
is  :  "  Be  good,  and  you  will  get  tangible  earthly 
rewards." 

[  xvi  3 


INTRODUCTION 

Now  Fielding  —  like  Thackeray  and  Cervantes, 
and  others  who  from  Homer  down  have  known 
human  nature  best  —  was  well  aware  that  unfortu- 
nately such  is  not  always  the  case.  The  marketable 
honour  of  the  vulgar  Pamela  (who,  in  addition  to 
her  other  short-comings,  lacked  all  sense  of  humour) 
seemed  to  a  man  of  the  world  like  him  meet  subject 
for  ridicule.  In  the  drama,  which  so  far  had  been 
almost  the  sole  field  of  his  literary  work,  his  con- 
spicuous successes  had  been  in  satirical  burlesque  — 
Torn  Thumb  and  Pasquin.  It  was  natural,  there- 
fore, that  he  should  take  up  his  pen  to  ridicule  the 
book  which  had  just  offended  him.  According  to 
Fielding,  Richardson's  hero,  Mr.  B.,  became  Mr. 
Booby.  To  his  alre^^dy  large  circle  of  Booby  rela- 
tives was  added  an  aunt  by  marriage,  Lady  Booby, 
a  female  sinner,  who  had  in  her  service  as  footman  a 
male  saint,  Joseph  Andrews,  brother  to  the  paragon 
of  virtue  herself.  With  Lady  Booby  tempting  this 
footman,  whose  virtue  like  his  sister'^s  should  be  as 
adamant.  Fielding  thought  that  he  had  excellent 
material  for  his  parody.  And  so  he  began  the  com- 
position of  Joseph  Andrews,  which  appeared  in  Febru- 
ary, 1742,  the  first  of  his  novels  to  be  published. 

All  critics  agree  that  Pamela  thus  gave  the  imme- 
diate impulse  to  Joseph  Andrew's;  they  are  not 
agreed,  however,  as  to  how  strong  its  influence  re- 
mained throughout  the  book.  It  is  certain  that  the 
parody  runs  into  the  tenth  chapter,  for  in  that  is  a 
letter  from  Joseph  to  his  sister,  in  imitation  of  some 
of  her  own  correspondence.  It  is  equally  certain  that 
in  the  eleventh  chapter,  Fielding  breaks  away  from  the  i 
[xvii] 


INTRODUCTION 

parody ;  but,  according  to  Professor  Saintsbur}',  all 
through  the  story  signs  of  it  are  to  be  found  in  the 
love  that  Joseph  inspires  in  more  than  one  feminine 
breast.  Finally,  there  is  an  undoubted  return  to  the 
parody  in  the  fourth  book,  which  introduces  not  only 
Lady  Booby,  still  amorously  pursuing  Joseph,  but 
also  her  nephew,  Squire  Booby,  and  his  saintly  spouse. 
So  far  as  they  appear,  they  remain  amusingly  faith- 
ful to  the  pictures  which  Richardson  had  given  of 
them  himself.  The  passages  are  fair  hits  at  the 
earlier  novelists  work  which  show  the  ex-maid- 
servant declaring  to  her  supposed  brother  that  Fanny 
is  no  longer  her  equal  but  her  inferior,  chiding 
Fanny  for  her  assurance  in  aiming  at  such  a  match 
as  Joseph,  and  finally,  on  learning  that  after  all 
Fanny  is  her  sister,  behaving  "  with  great  decency." 

Though  the  influence  of  Pamela  probably  went 
farther  than  those  chapters  in  which  the  parody  is 
plain,  I  am  not  inclined  to  accept  as  truth  the  state- 
ment frequently  made :  that  without  Richardson 
we  should  never  have  had  Fielding.  To  argue 
otherwise  at  length  would  be  ftitile,  for  we  never 
could  reach  certainty.  The  fact  will  always  remain 
that  Richardson  wrote  a  novel  which  led  his  greater 
contemporary  to  write  a  greater  novel.  It  is  not 
impossible,  however,  —  perhaps  not  improbable  — 
that  Fielding  would  have  produced  something  of  the 
kind  had  Samuel  Richardson  never  been  bom.  At 
all  events,  the  influence  of  many  another  book  than 
Pamela  is  apparent  in  Joseph  Andrews.  The  author  i 
on  the  title-page  frankly  announced  it  as  "  written 
in  imitation  of  the  manner  of  Cervantes  ^  ;  and  even  i 
[  xviii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

vithout  this  acknowledgment,  readers  might  have 
suspected  as  much  from  the  succession  of  rough, 
horse-play  incidents,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Quixotic 
character  of  Joseph's  friend,  Mr.  Abraham  Adams. 
Less  marked,  but  not  less  real,  is  the  influence  of 
Scarron's  Roman  Comique.  It  is  apparent  in  the 
mock-heroic  passages,  in  the  headings  to  the  chap- 
ters, and  in  the  f^eneral  bantering  tone  of  the  whole 
book,  a  good  part  of  which  seems  to  be  an  experi- 
ment, tried  for  the  mere  fun  of  the  thing.  And 
yet,  before  you  are  done  with  Joseph  Andrews y  you 
feel  that  here  is  something  to  be  taken  much  more 
seriously  than  you  would  ever  take  the  Roman 
Comique. 

There  are  other  authors  who  probably  exerted  an 
influence  on  Fielding,  though  their  influence  is  more 
or  less  problematical.  He  himself  speaks  ^  of  Mari- 
vaux  and  LeSage  in  a  way  which  shows  acquaintance 
with  them  and  admiration  for  their  works ;  but  no 
such  undoubted  traces  of  them  are  to  be  found  in 
Joseph  Andrews  as  of  Cervantes  and  Scarron.  True, 
the  hero  of  the  Paysan  Parvenu  is  exposed,  in  the 
first  part  of  his  entertaining  history,  to  temptations 
not  unlike  those  which  Joseph  triumphantly  over- 
comes, but  the  resemblance  may  be  only  fortuitous. 
Of  Fielding's  acquaintance  with  yet  other  picaresque 
writers  it  is  impossible  to  speak  certainly ;  knowl- 
edge of  the  works  of  some  of  them,  however,  it  is 
pretty  safe  to  assume.  And  finally,  and  by  no  means 
of  least  importance,  we  must  remember  that  Field- 
ing knew  well  the  character-sketches  of  Addison 
1  Joteph  Andrews,  Book  III,  Chapter  I. 
[xix] 


INTRODUCTION 

and  Steele.  In  short,  even  had  he  never  heard  of 
Pamela^  Fielding's  reading  among  the  later  Spanish 
and  French  and  English  writers  had  been  of  just  the 
nature  to  prepare  him  for  that  new  kind  of  fiction  in 
which  he  was  to  excel. 

Knowledge  of  books,  however,  without  knowledge 
of  life  will  not  make  a  great  novelist ;  and  fortu- 
nately Fielding  knew  life  even  better  than  he  knew 
books.  He  knew  it  so  well,  when  he  composed 
Joseph  Andrews  at  the  age  of  thirty-four,  that  he 
had  by  that  time  a  training  for  the  career  of  novelist 
such  as  few  men  gifted  with  literary  genius  have 
ever  had.  He  knew  countiy  life  and  he  knew  town 
life ;  and  he  knew  all  grades  of  society  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest.  On  both  sides  of  his  house 
he  came  of  gentle  blood  —  on  his  father's,  indeed,  of 
the  noble  blood  of  the  Earls  of  Denbigh^  —  a  family 
somewhat  doubtfully  reported  to  descend  from  the 
royal  house  of  Hapsburg,  whence  that  oft-quoted 
rhetorical  encomium  of  Gibbon  on  Tom  Jones:  — 
that  it  would  "  outlive  the  palace  of  the  Escurial 
and  the  Imperial  Eagle  of  the  house  of  Austria."  The 
brilliant  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  daughter  to 
the  Duke  of  Richmond,  was  Henry  Fielding's  second 
cousin.  But  Fielding's  nature  was  not  such  as  would 
restrict  his  friendships  to  his  own  class.  Born  in 
1707  at  Sharpham  Park  in  Somersetshire,  the  seat  of 

1  Fielding's  father  was  General  Edmund  Fielding,  his 
grandfather  was  John  Fielding,  Canon  of  Salisbury,  and  his 
great-grandfather  was  the  Earl  of  Desmond,  in  the  peerage  of 
Ireland.  This  nobleman  was  descended  from  the  younger 
branch  of  the  Earls  of  Denbigh. 
[«] 


INTRODUCTION 

his  mother's  father,  and  brought  up  in  that  county 
and  in  Dorsetshire,  he  no  doubt  became  acquainted 
in  his  boyhood  with  the  neighbouring  peasantry,  as 
well  as  the  country  gentry.  It  is  not  unreasonable 
to  imagine  an  intimacy  between  him  and  some  vag- 
abond game-keeper,  like  that  between  Black  George 
and  Tom  Jones,  Fielding's  chances  of  observing 
mankind,  however,  were  not  to  be  confined  to  this 
western  country.  When  about  eleven  or  twelve,  he 
was  sent  to  school  at  Eton  where  he  probably 
strengthened  a  taste  already  formed  for  outdoor 
sports,  and  certainly  made  several  life-long  friends. 
On  leaving  school  he  seems  directly  to  have  enlarged 
and  matured  his  still  boyish  experience  by  falling  in 
love  with  Miss  Sarah  Andrew,  a  young  lady  of 
Lyme,  thought  to  be  a  cousin  of  his  on  his  mother's 
side.  Then  came  a  year  or  two  of  foreign  university 
experience,  when  he  was  studying  law  at  Leyden. 
And  then,  it  is  said  because  his  father's  remittances 
stopped,  he  returned  to  England  and  began  to 
gain  in  London  the  fuller  experience  of  life  which 
generally  comes  to  men  when,  ceasing  to  depend 
on  their  parents,  they  begin  really  to  support 
themselves. 

Fielding  was  not  far  fi-om  twenty-one  when  he  be- 
gan his  London  career.  According  to  all  reports  he 
was  then  a  fine-looking  fellow,  over  six  feet  in  his 
stockings,  manly,  generous,  and  good-natured,  with 
a  vast  capacity  for  enjoyment.  It  is  small  wonder 
that,  considering  his  penniless  condition,  he  thought 
the  path  to  legal  success  too  long  and  hard;  the 
path  to  dramatic  fame  seemed  shorter  and  pleas- 
[xxi] 


INTRODUCTION 

anter.     Accordingly,  he  had  soon  entered  on  what 
we  may  call  his  first  literary  period  —  that  in  which 
he  was  writing  plays  and  probably,  at  some  detri- 
ment to  his  health,  adding  materially  to  his  knowledge 
of  mankind.     After  making  all  allowance  for  the  ex- 
aggeration (and  there  has  been  a  great  deal  of  it)  in 
the  pictures  of  Fielding  as  a  brilliant  rake,  we  must 
believe  that  in  the  first  years  of  his  dramatic  writ- 
ings, he  saw  much  of  a  society  very  different  from 
that  to  which  he  was  born.     He  kissed  the  hands, 
no  doubt,  of  second-rate  actresses,  long  since  indiffer- 
ent to  those  troublesome  things  called  reputations, 
as  well  as  the  hands  of  ladies  of  quality.     Green- 
rooms,   shabby  lodgings,  and   sponging-houses    he 
knew  as   well   as   the   drawing-rooms  and  country- 
houses  of  his  friends  and  kinsmen.     Careless  Bohe- 
mianism,    however,    which    might    have    brutalised 
Fielding  far  too  much,  and  which  did  bmtalise  him 
a  little  too  much,  was  not  the  only  influence  that  he 
felt;    there    were   other   influences    which    steadied 
him  and  kept  his  nature   sweet.     Wlien  not  quite 
twenty-eight,  he  married,  and  everything  leads  us  to 
suppose  that  he  was  a  tender  husband  and  father.     At 
thirty,  on  account  of  the  "Licensing  Act*"  which 
closed  the  theatre  that  he  owned,  he  returned  seri- 
ously to  studying  the  law.     Three  years  later  —  the 
year  before  he  wrote  Joseph  Andixxcs  —  he  was  called 
to  the  bar.     We  can  see,  therefore,  that  Fielding 
had  an   uncommonly   broad    knowledge    of  human 
nature  when,  by  good  chance,  he  entered  the  path 
which  led  him  to  Joseph  Andrews  and  thence  to  Torn 
Jones  and  Amelia.     We  have  already  seen  that  few 
[xxii] 


INTRODUCTION 

men  of  his  time  were  better  read  in  the  various 
books  which  helped  prepare  the  way  for  the  English 
novel.  And  so,  as  I  have  said,  I  am  by  no  means 
sure,  that  without  Pamela  to  precede  it,  Joseph  An- 
drews would  never  have  gladdened  and  instructed 
the  world. 

Although  I  should  have  hesitation  in  asserting 
positively  that  we  do  not  owe  Fielding  as  a  novelist 
to  Richardson,  I  should  say  without  hesitation  that 
until  Joseph.  Andrews  had  been  composed,  the  future 
of  the  English  novel  was  not  assured.  By  a  novel 
we  commonly  understand  to-day  a  story  with  a  fairly 
well-defined  beginning,  middle,  and  end,  in  which 
characters,  who  are  not  unnatural,  go  through  ad- 
ventures which  may  be  ever  so  romantic,  pro\ided 
that  we  can  still  accept  them  as  real.  Some  novels 
we  read  chiefly  for  the  sake  of  the  plot ;  some,  for 
the  clever  delineation  of  the  characters  ;  and  the  best, 
for  a  happy  combination  of  both,  such  as  Tom 
Jonesy  Pride  and  Prejudice^  and  Henry  Esmond. 
Furthermore,  in  these  three,  as  in  all  the  best  novels, 
the  background  seems  real.  When  we  read  Esmond^ 
for  instance,  we  feel  that  we  are  in  the  England  of 
Anne  and  the  great  Marlborough  and  the  "  Augus- 
tan "  wits  almost  as  strongly  as  when  we  read  Tlie 
Spectator  or  The  Rape  of  the  Lock.  In  other  words, 
the  elements  of  a  good  novel  are  plot,  characters,  and 
general  verisimilitude.  It  is  not  necessary  that  each 
of  these  should  be  present  in  an  equal  degree,  but  it 
is  essential  that  none  of  them  should  be  wholly  lack- 
ing. Now  nowhere  in  English  prose  had  these  three 
elements  been  so  well  combined  in  the  year  1742  as 
[xxiiij 


INTRODUCTION 

in  Joseph  Andrews.  Not  to  go  back  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  Addison  and  Steele  had  made  excellent 
character-sketches  standing  out  against  excellent 
backgrounds,  but  more  they  did  not  do.  If  they  had 
given  the  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  papers  a  good  plot, 
they  would  have  produced  a  novel.  Defoe  had 
written  many  stories  whose  verisimilitude  could  not 
be  sui*passed,  but  they  had  no  plot  and  very  few  liv- 
ing characters.  At  length  in  Pamela^  Richardson  hit 
after  a  fashion  upon  the  combination  of  elements 
that  the  English  novel  should  have.  Pamela  had 
plot,  it  had  fairly  real  characters,  and,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, it  had  verisimilitude.  The  characters,  however, 
like  all  of  Richardson"'s,  are  too  conventional  and  not 
enough  individual  — especially  his  people  of  quality  ; 
you  would  never  find  a  Squire  Western  or  a  Sir  Pitt 
Crawley  among  them.  Nor  are  the  scenes  always 
such  as  to  make  you  for  the  time  accept  them  as 
real.  No,  there  is  not  that  in  Pamela  which  makes 
you  believe  that  the  English  novel  is  going  to  become 
a  literary  form  unsurpassed  for  giving  pictures  of 
actual  life.  After  reading  it  you  feel  no  certainty 
that  the  kind  of  literature  has  been  discovered  which 
shall  introduce  us  to  such  bits  of  reality  as  the  small 
country  balls  honoured  by  Elizabeth  Bennet  and 
Emma  Woodhouse ;  which  shall  hurry  us  breathless 
across  the  streets  and  squares  of  Vanity  Faivy  while 
Mrs.  Rawdon  dines  alone  with  Lord  Steyne ;  or  (to 
take  a  recent  but  not  unworthy  instance)  which  shall 
carry  us  in  the  te-rain  from  Lahore  to  Umballa  with 
Kim  and  the  old  lama  and  their  strange  eastern  com- 
panions. Of  all  this  life,  and  of  the  much  more 
[  xxiv  J 


INTRODUCTION 

that  is  in  the  English  novel,  Pamela  gives  us  only 
slight  hope;  but  Joseph  Andrews  gives  us  certain 
promise.  For  this  reason  it  is  that  I  say,  till  Joseph 
Andrews  was  composed,  the  future  of  the  English 
novel  was  not  assured.  For  this  reason  it  is  that 
Joseph  Andrews  is  one  of  the  most  important  books 
in  our  literature. 

Yet  one  does  not  have  to  examine  Joseph  Andrews 
very  critically  to  find  a  conspicuous  weakness  in  its 
structure  —  a  weakness  arising  not  from  inadequacy 
of  plot  (for  the  plot  is  coherent  and  substantial 
enough),  but  from  the  way  in  which  it  is  unfolded. 
Instead  of  going  straight  to  its  end,  the  story  con- 
tinually wanders  off  the  track  to  incidents  which  help 
it  forward  little,  if  any.  Fielding's  French  and  Span- 
ish models,  of  course,  are  responsible  for  this  leisurely, 
uncertain  movement.  They  have  no  very  definite 
ends  to  reach,  and  they  frequently  digress  into  so- 
called  "  novels  "  —  that  is,  short  stories  distinct  from 
the  main  tale  —  or  into  long-winded  life-histories  of 
characters  in  the  main  story.  It  is  not  so  surprising, 
therefore,  that  similar  digressive  episodes  are  found  in 
Joseph  Andrews,  as  that  here  they  break  the  thread  of 
the  principal  narrative  much  less  than  they  do  in  most 
works  in  which  they  appear.  Mr.  Wilson's  history 
is  shown  by  subsequent  disclosures  to  be  scarcely 
irrelevant  at  all ;  and  the  less  relevant  stories  of 
Leonora,  the  unfortunate  jilt,  and  of  Leonard 
and  Paul  are  made  acceptable  (if  not  almost  in- 
tegrant) parts  of  the  main  tale  by  the  very  char- 
acteristic interruptions  of  Parson  Adams  and  the 
other  hearers. 

[xxv] 


INTRODUCTION 

But  if  Joseph  Andreics  is  weak  in  one  of  the  ele- 
ments of  a  good  novel,  in  the  other  two  it  is  strong. 
Were  its  structure  much  less  firm  that  it  is,  the 
reality  of  its  characters  and  of  its  scenes  would  still 
keep  it  alive.  Nowhere  in  earlier  English  prose  will 
you  find  such  a  living  character  as  Parson  Adams 
appearing  in  a  series  of  credible  scenes  so  closely  con- 
nected. And  nowhere  in  English  prose,  later  or 
earlier,  will  you  find  a  character  more  lovable  in  his 
simplicity.  In  the  chapters  which  introduce  him,  as 
elsewhere  in  Joseph  Andrews^  the  influence  of  Cer- 
vantes is  strongly  apparent ;  there  is  more  than  one 
resemblance  between  Adams  and  Don  Quixote. 
They  are  alike,  as  Scott  has  ob  «rved,  in  that  both 
are  beaten  too  much ;  and  notwithstanding  some 
obvious  differences,  they  are  alike  in  their  natures. 
Natui'ally  a  Spanish  gentleman  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  with  his  head  full  of  the  romances  of 
chivalry,  must  be  in  many  ways  different  from  a  poor 
English  clergyman  of  the  eighteenth  century,  with 
his  head  fall  of  the  Greek  poets.  And  yet  Parson 
Adams,  for  all  his  pedantry,  is  the  same  sort  of 
simple,  pure-minded  gentleman  as  that  dear,  crazy 
old  Don  —  one  of  the  truest  gentlemen  in  the  world. 
There  is  another  gentleman  —  his  portrait  is  given 
us  by  the  novelist  who  of  nineteenth  century  writers 
is  most  like  Fielding  —  who  always  seems  to  me  to 
take  his  place  properly  beside  Don  Quixote  and 
Parson  Adams  —  I  mean  Colonel  Newcome.  It 
would  be  hard  to  find  three  men  with  finer  gentle- 
manly feelings  than  these. 

Adams  is  unquestionably  the  great  character  of 
[  rxvi  ] 


INTRODUCTIOxN 

Joseph  Andrews.  Joseph  himself  and  Fanny,  in 
spite  of  their  importance  in  the  plot,  interest  us  less. 
Indeed,  like  many  stage-lovers,  they  are  less  alive 
than  most  of  the  other  characters.  They  are  not  so 
interesting  as  the  young  people  whom  Fielding  was 
to  create  later  —  as  Tom  Jones  and  Sophia  Western, 
or  as  Booth  and  Amelia.  In  Mrs.  Slipslop,  however, 
is  a  character-sketch  which  Fielding  could  not  have 
bettered  ;  she  is  a  mixture  of  servility,  impertinence, 
hypocrisy,  and  sensuality  that  could  not  be  sui- 
passed.  Nor  is  Mrs.  JNIalapiop  herself  more  amusing 
in  the  "  nice  derangement  of  her  epitaphs ""  than 
Slipslop,  when  she  talks  about  "  flagrant  crimes "" 
and  the  "  infections,"  meaning  affections,  "  of  her 
sect."" 

As  to  the  rest  of  the  characters,  it  is  enough  to  say 
that,  even  if  they  are  on  the  stage  but  a  few  minutes, 
lliey  act  their  parts  to  the  life.  Parson  Trullibcr, 
for  instance,  appears  in  only  one  chapter,  but  he 
is  a  figure  in  our  literature  forever.  The  people  of 
Joseph  Andre'iCS  aU  live,  and  that  is  the  great  merit 
of  the  book.  It  proves,  as  I  have  said,  that  the 
English  novel  is  a  literary  form  unsurpassed  for  giv- 
ing pictures  of  actual  life.  A  reader  feels  that  he 
has  really  travelled  along  the  road  from  London  to 
Somersetshire,  stopped  at  the  inns  kept  by  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tow-wouse  and  others,  and  ridden  in  the  stage- 
coach to  which  Joseph  was  admitted  after  so  much 
dispute.  A  rough  life  it  is  and  a  coarse  life,  but  it 
gives  you  the  fresh  breath  of  the  fields  and  the  woods, 
and  it  makes  you  feel  in  the  best  physical  condition. 
Unless  you  are  squeamish,  you  feel  in  good  mental 
[  xxvii  ] 


INTRODUCTION 

condition,  too,  for  you  have  had  the  vices  and  foibles 
and  also  the  virtues  of  life  pointed  out  and  com- 
mented on  frankly,  shrewdly,  and  sympathetically  by 
one  of  the  sanest  observers  of  human  nature  who 
ever  lived. 

G.  H.  Maynadier. 


[  xxviii  ] 


AUTHOR  S    PREFACE 

j^  S  it  is  possible  the  mere  English  reader 
/^^        may  have  a  different   idea  of  romance 

/  ■  ^^  from  the  author  of  these  little^  volumes, 
^  jk.  and  may  consequently  expect  a  kind  of 
entertainment  not  to  be  found,  nor  which  was  even 
intended,  in  the  following  pages,  it  may  not  be 
improper  to  premise  a  few  words  concerning  this 
kind  of  writing,  which  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
seen  hitherto  attempted  in  our  language. 

The  Epic,  as  well  as  the  Drama,  is  divided  into 
tragedy  and  comedy.  Homer,  who  was  the  father 
of  this  species  of  poetry,  gave  us  a  pattern  of  both 
these,  though  that  of  the  latter  kind  is  entirely  lost ; 
which  Aristotle  tells  us,  bore  the  same  relation  to 
comedy  which  his  Iliad  bears  to  tragedy.  And  per- 
haps, that  we  have  no  more  instances  of  it  among 
the  writers  of  antiquity,  is  owing  to  the  loss  of  this 
great  pattei'n,  which,  had  it  survived,  would  have 
found  its  imitators  equally  with  the  other  poems  of 
this  great  original. 

And  farther,  as  this  poetry  may  be  tragic  or 
comic,  I  mil  not  scruple  to  say  it  may  be  likewise 
either  in  verse  or  prose :  for  though  it  wants  one 
particular,  which  the  critic  enumerates  in  the  con- 

1  Joseph  Andrews  was  originally  published  in  2  vols.  12mo. 
[  xxix  ] 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

stituent  parts  of  an  epic  poem,  namely  metre ;  yet, 
when  any  kind  of  writing  contains  all  its  other  parts, 
such  as  fable,  action,  characters,  sentiments,  and 
diction,  and  is  deficient  in  metre  only,  it  seems,  I 
think,  reasonable  to  refer  it  to  the  epic ;  at  least,  as 
no  critic  hath  thought  proper  to  range  it  under  any 
other  head,  or  to  assign  it  a  particular  name  to 
itself. 

Thus  the  Telemachus  of  the  archbishop  of  Cam- 
bray  appears  to  me  of  the  epic  kind,  as  well  as  the 
Odyssey  of  Homer ;  indeed,  it  is  much  fairer  and 
more  reasonable  to  give  it  a  name  common  with  that 
species  from  which  it  differs  only  in  a  single  instance, 
than  to  confound  it  with  those  which  it  resembles  in 
no  other.  Such  are  those  voluminous  works,  com- 
monly called  Romances,  namely,  Clelia,  Cleopatra, 
Astraea,  Cassandra,  the  Grand  Cyrus,  and  innumer- 
able others,  which  contain,  as  I  apprehend,  very 
little  instruction  or  entertainment. 

Now,  a  comic  romance  is  a  comic  epic  poem  in 
prose ;  differing  from  comedy,  as  the  serious  epic 
from  tragedy:  its  action  being  more  extended  and 
comprehensive;  containing  a  much  larger  circle  of 
incidents,  and  introducing  a  greater  variety  of  char- 
acters. It  differs  from  the  serious  romance  in  its 
fable  and  action,  in  this ;  that  as  in  the  one  these 
are  grave  and  solemn,  so  in  the  other  they  are  light 
and  ridiculous ;  it  differs  in  its  characters  by  intro- 
ducing persons  of  inferior  rank,  and  consequently, 
of  inferior  manners,  whereas  the  grave  romance  sets 
the  highest  before  us :  lastly,  in  its  sentiments  and 
diction  ;  by  preserving  the  ludia'ous  instead  of  the 
[xxx] 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

sublime.  In  the  diction,  I  think,  burlesque  itself 
may  be  sometimes  admitted  ;  of  which  many  instances 
will  occur  in  this  work,  as  in  the  description  of  the 
battles,  and  some  other  places,  not  necessary  to  be 
pointed  out  to  the  classical  reader,  for  whose  enter- 
tainment those  parodies  or  burlesque  imitations  are 
chiefly  calculated. 

But  though  we  have  sometimes  admitted  this  in 
our  diction,  we  have  carefully  excluded  it  from  our 
sentiments  and  characters  ;  for  there  it  is  never  prop- 
erly introduced,  unless  in  writings  of  the  burlesque 
kind,  which  this  is  not  intended  to  be.  Indeed,  no 
two  species  of  writing  can  differ  more  widely  than 
the  comic  and  the  burlesque ;  for  as  the  latter  is 
ever  the  exhibition  of  what  is  monstrous  and  un- 
natural, and  where  our  delight,  if  we  examine  it, 
arises  from  the  surprizing  absurdity,  as  in  appro- 
priating the  manners  of  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  or 
c  converso ;  so  in  the  former  we  should  ever  confine 
ourselves  strictly  to  nature,  from  the  just  imitation 
of  which  will  flow  all  the  pleasure  we  can  this  way 
convey  to  a  sensible  reader.  And  perhaps  there  is 
one  reason  why  a  comic  writer  should  of  all  others 
be  the  least  excused  for  deviating  from  nature,  since 
it  may  not  be  always  so  easy  for  a  serious  poet  to 
meet  with  the  great  and  the  admirable ;  but  life 
everywhere  furnishes  an  accurate  observer  with  the 
ridiculous. 

I  have   hinted   this   little   concerning   burlesque, 
because  I  have  often  heard  that  name  given  to  per- 
formances ^which  have  been  truly  of  the  comic  kind, 
from  the  author's  having  sometimes  admitted  it  in 
[  xxxi  J 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

his  diction  only ;  which,  as  it  is  the  dress  of  poetry, 
doth,  like  the  dress  of  men,  establish  characters  ( the 
one  of  the  whole  poem,  and  the  other  of  the  whole 
man),  in  vulgar  opinion,  beyond  any  of  their  greater 
excellences :  but  surely,  a  certain  drollery  in  stile, 
where  characters  and  sentiments  are  perfectly  natural, 
no  more  constitutes  the  burlesque,  than  an  empty 
pomp  and  dignity  of  words,  where  everj'thing  else  is 
mean  and  low,  can  entitle  any  performance  to  the 
appellation  of  the  true  sublime. 

And  I  apprehend  my  Lord  Shaftesbury's  opinion 
of  mere  burlesque  agrees  with  mine,  when  he  asserts, 
There  is  no  such  thing  to  be  found  in  the  writings 
of  the  ancients.  But  perhaps  I  have  less  abhorrence 
than  he  professes  for  it ;  and  that,  not  because  I  have 
had  some  little  success  on  the  stage  this  way,  but 
rather  as  it  contributes  more  to  exquisite  mirth  and 
laughter  than  any  other;  and  these  are  probably 
more  wholesome  physic  for  the  mind,  and  conduce 
better  to  purge  away  spleen,  melancholy,  and  ill 
aflPections,  than  is  generally  imagined.  Nay,  I  will 
appeal  to  common  observation,  whether  the  same 
companies  are  not  found  more  full  of  good-humour 
and  benevolence,  after  they  have  been  s\^  eetened  for 
two  or  three  hours  with  entertainments  of  this  kind, 
than  when  soured  by  a  tragedy  or  a  grave  lectm'e. 

But  to  illustrate  all  this  by  another  science,  in 
which,  perhaps,  we  shall  see  the  distinction  more 
clearly  and  plainly,  let  us  examine  the  works  of  a 
comic  history  painter,  with  those  performances 
which  the  Italians  call  Caricatura,  where  we  shall 
find  the  true  excellence  of  the  former  to  consist  in 
[  xxxii  ] 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

the  exactest  copying  of  nature ;  insomuch  that  a 
judicious  eye  instantly  rejects  anything  oidrk^  any 
hberty  which  the  painter  hath  taken  with  the  features 
of  that  alma  mater;  whereas  in  the  Caricatura  we 
allow  all  licence  —  its  aim  is  to  exliibit  monsters,  not 
men  ;  and  all  distortions  and  exaggerations  whatever 
are  within  its  proper  province. 

Now,  what  Caricatura  is  in  painting,  Burlesque  is 
in  writing ;  and  in  the  same  manner  the  comic  writer 
and  painter  correlate  to  each  other.  And  here  I 
shall  observe,  that,  as  in  the  former  the  painter 
seems  to  have  the  advantage ;  so  it  is  in  the  latter 
infinitely  on  the  side  of  the  writer ;  for  the  Mon- 
strous is  much  easier  to  paint  than  describe,  and  the 
Ridiculous  to  describe  than  paint. 

And  though  perhaps  this  latter  species  doth  not 
in  either  science  so  strongly  affect  and  agitate  the 
muscles  as  the  other ;  yet  it  will  be  owned,  I  believe, 
that  a  more  rational  and  useful  pleasure  arises  to  us 
from  it.  He  who  should  call  the  ingenious  Hogarth 
a  burlesque  painter,  would,  in  my  opinion,  do  him 
very  little  honour  ;  for  sure  it  is  much  easier,  much 
less  the  subject  of  admiration,  to  paint  a  man  with 
a  nose,  or  any  other  feature,  of  a  preposterous  size, 
or  to  expose  him  in  some  absurd  or  monstrous  atti- 
tude, than  to  express  the  affections  of  men  on  canvas. 
It  hath  been  thought  a  vast  commendation  of  a 
painter  to  say  his  figures  seem  to  breathe ;  but 
surely  it  is  a  much  greater  and  nobler  applause,  that 
they  appear  to  think. 

But  to  return.  Tlie  Ridiculous  onlv,  as  I  have 
before  said,  falls  within  my  province  in  the  present 
[  xxxiii  j 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

work.  Nor  will  some  explanation  of  this  word  be 
thought  impertinent  by  the  reader,  if  he  considers 
how  wonderfully  it  hath  been  mistaken,  even  by 
writers  who  have  professed  it :  for  to  what  but  such 
a  mistake  can  we  attribute  the  manv  attempts  to 
ridicule  the  blackest  villanies,  and,  what  is  yet  worse, 
the  most  dreadful  calamities  ?  "What  could  exceed 
the  absurdity  of  an  author,  who  should  \vrite  the 
comedy  of  Nero,  with  the  merry  incident  of  ripping 
up  his  mother's  belly  ?  or  what  would  give  a  gi-eater 
shock  to  humanity  than  an  attempt  to  expose  the 
miseries  of  poverty  and  distress  to  ridicule  ?  And 
yet  the  reader  will  not  want  much  learning  to  suggest 
such  instances  to  himself. 

Besides,  it  may  seem  remarkable,  that  Aristotle, 
who  is  so  fond  and  free  of  definitions,  hath  not 
thought  proper  to  define  the  Ridiculous.  Indeed, 
where  he  tells  us  it  is  proper  to  comedy,  he  hath 
remarked  that  villany  is  not  its  object :  but  he  hath 
not,  as  I  remember,  positively  asserted  what  is. 
Nor  doth  the  Abbe  Bellegarde,  who  hath  written  a 
treatise  on  this  subject,  though  he  shows  us  many 
species  of  it,  once  trace  it  to  its  fountain. 
ST^  The  only  soui'ce  of  the  true  Ridiculous  (as  it 
appears  to  me)  is  affectation.  But  though  it  arises 
from  one  spring  only,  when  we  consider  the  infinite 
streams  into  which  this  one  branches,  we  shall  pres- 
ently cease  to  admire  at  the  copious  field  it  affords 
to  an  observer.  Now,  affectation  proceeds  from  one 
of  these  two  causes,  vanity  or  hypocrisy  :  for  as  vanity 
puts  us  on  affecting  false  cha,racters,  in  order  to  pur- 
chase applause ;  so  hypocrisy  sets  us  on  an  endeavour 
[  xxxiv  ] 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

to  avoid  censure,  by  concealing  our  vices  under  an 
appearance  of  their  opposite  virtues.  And  though 
these  two  causes  are  often  confounded  (for  there  is 
some  difficulty  in  distinguishing  them),  yet,  as  they 
proceed  from  very  different  motives,  so  they  are  as 
clearly  distinct  in  their  operations;  for  indeed,  the 
affectation  which  arises  from  vanity  is  nearer  to  truth 
than  the  other,  as  it  hath  not  that  violent  repug- 
nancy of  nature  to  struggle  with,  which  that  of  the 
hypocrite  hath.  It  may  be  likewise  noted,  that 
affectation  doth  not  imply  an  absolute  negation  of 
those  qualities  which  are  affected;  and,  therefore, 
though,  when  it  proceeds  from  hypocrisy,  it  be 
nearly  allied  to  deceit;  yet  when  it  comes  from 
vanity  only,  it  partakes  of  the  nature  of  ostentation  : 
for  instance,  the  affectation  of  liberality  in  a  vain 
man  differs  visibly  from  the  same  affectation  in  the 
avaricious  ;  for  though  the  vain  man  is  not  what  he 
would  appear,  or  hath  not  the  virtue  he  affects,  to 
the  degree  he  would  be  thought  to  have  it ;  yet  it 
sits  less  awkwardly  on  him  than  on  the  avaricious 
man,  who  is  the  very  reverse  of  what  he  would  seem 
to  be. 

From  the  discovery  of  this  affectation  ai'ises  the 
Ridiculous,  which  always  strikes  the  reader  with  sur- 
prize and  pleasure ;  and  that  in  a  higher  and  stronger 
d^ree  when  the  affectation  arises  from  hypocrisy, 
than  when  from  vanity ;  for  to  discover  any  one  to 
be  the  exact  reverse  of  what  he  affects,  is  more  sur- 
prizing, and  consequently  more  ridiculous,  than  to 
find  him  a  little  deficient  in  the  quality  he  desires 
the  reputation  of.     I  might  obsene  that  our  Ben 

[  XXXV  J 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

Jonson,  who  of  all  men  understood  the  Ridiculous  the 
best,  hath  chiefly  used  the  hypocritical  affectation. 

Now,  from  affectation  only,  the  misfortunes  and 
calamities  of  life,  or  the  imperfections  of  nature, 
may  become  the  objects  of  ridicule.  Surely  he  hath 
a  very  ill-framed  mind  who  can  look  on  ugliness, 
infirmity,  or  poverty,  as  ridiculous  in  themselves : 
nor  do  I  believe  any  man  living,  who  meets  a  dirty 
fellow  riding  through  the  streets  in  a  cart,  is  struck 
with  an  idea  of  the  Ridiculous  from  it ;  but  if  he 
should  see  the  same  figure  descend  from  his  coach 
and  six,  or  bolt  from  his  chair  with  his  hat  under 
his  arm,  he  would  then  begin  to  laugh,  and  with  jus- 
tice. In  the  same  manner,  were  we  to  enter  a  poor 
house  and  behold  a  wretched  family  shivering  with 
cold  and  languishing  with  hunger,  it  would  not 
incline  us  to  laughter  (at  least  we  must  have  very 
diabolical  natures  if  it  would) ;  but  should  we  dis- 
cover there  a  grate,  instead  of  coals,  adorned  with 
flowei's,  empty  plate  or  china  dishes  on  the  side- 
board, or  any  other  affectation  of  riches  and  finery, 
either  on  their  persons  or  in  their  furniture,  we 
might  then  indeed  be  excused  for  ridiculing  so  fan- 
tastical an  appearance.  Much  less  are  natural 
imperfections  the  object  of  derision ;  but  when  ugli- 
ness aims  at  the  applause  of  beauty,  or  lameness 
endeavours  to  display  agility,  it  is  then  that  these 
unfortunate  circumstances,  which  at  first  moved  our 
compassion,  tend  only  to  raise  our  mirth. 

The  poet  cames  this  very  far  :  — 

None  are  for  being  what  they  are  in  fault. 
But  for  not  being  what  they  would  be  thought 
[  xxxvi  j 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

Where  if  the  metre  would  suffer  the  word  Ridiculous 
to  close  the  first  line,  the  thought  would  be  i-ather 
more  proper.  Great  vices  are  the  proper  objects  of 
our  detestation,  smaller  faults,  of  our  pity ;  but 
affectation  appears  to  me  the  only  true  source  of  the 
Ridiculous. 

But  perhaps  it  may  be  objected  to  me,  that  I  have 
against  my  omu  rules  introduced  vices,  and  of  a  very 
black  kind,  into  this  work.  To  which  I  shall  answer  : 
first,  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  pursue  a  series  of 
human  actions,  and  keep  clear  from  them.  Secondly, 
that  the  vices  to  be  found  here  are  rather  the  acci- 
dental consequences  of  some  human  frailty  or  foible, 
than  causes  habitually  existing  in  the  mind.  Thirdly, 
that  they  are  never  set  forth  as  the  objects  of  ridicule, 
but  detestation.  Fourthly,  that  tliey  are  never  the 
principal  figure  at  that  time  on  the  scene :  and, 
lastly,  they  never  produce  tlie  intended  evil. 

Having  thus  distinguished  Joseph  Andrews  from 
the  productions  of  romance  writers  on  the  one  hand 
and  burlesque  writers  on  the  other,  and  given  some 
few  very  short  hints  (for  I  intended  no  more)  of  this 
species  of  writing,  which  I  have  affirmed  to  be 
hitherto  unattempted  in  our  language  ;  I  shall  leave 
to  my  good-natured  reader  to  apply  my  piece  to  my 
observations,  and  will  detain  him  no  longer  than  with 
a  word  concerning  the  characters  in  this  work. 

And  here  I  solemnly  protest  I  have  no  intention 
to  vilify  or  asperse  any  one ;  for  though  everything  is 
copied  from  the  book  of  nature,  and  scarce  a  char- 
acter or  action  produced  which  I  have  not  taken 
from  my  own  observations  and  experience;  yet  J 
[  xxxvii  ] 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 

have  used  the  utmost  care  to  obscure  the  persons  by 
such  different  circumstances,  degrees,  and  colours, 
that  it  will  be  impossible  to  guess  at  them  with  any 
degree  of  certainty  ;  and  if  it  ever  happens  other- 
wise, it  is  only  where  the  failure  characterized  is  so 
minute,  that  it  is  a  foible  only  which  the  party 
himself  may  laugh  at  as  well  as  any  other. 

As  to  tlie  character  of  Adams,  as  it  is  the  most 
glaring  in  the  whole,  so  I  conceive  it  is  not  to  be 
found  in  any  book  now  extant.  It  is  designed  a 
character  of  perfect  simplicity  ;  and  as  the  goodness 
of  his  heart  will  recommend  him  to  the  good-natured, 
so  I  hope  it  will  excuse  me  to  the  gentlemen  of  his 
cloth  ;  for  whom,  while  they  are  worthy  of  their  sacred 
order,  no  man  can  possibly  have  a  greater  respect. 
They  will  therefore  excuse  me,  notwthstanding  the 
low  adventures  in  which  he  is  engaged,  that  I  have 
made  him  a  clergyman ;  since  no  other  office  could 
have  given  him  so  many  opportunities  of  displaying 
his  worthy  inclinations. 


[  xxxviii  ] 


THE  HISTORY  of  the  ADVENTURES 

0/ JOSEPH   ANDREWS 

AND  HIS  FRIEND  MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS 


BOOK    I 

CHAPTER   ONE 

OP  WRITING  LIVES  IN  GENERAL,  AND  PARTICULARLY  OF 
PAMELA  ;  WITH  A  WORD  BY  THE  BYE  OF  COLLEY 
GIBBER  AND  OTHERS. 

IT  is  a  trite  but  true  observation,  that  examples 
work  more  forcibly  on  the  mind  than  pre- 
cepts :  and  if  this  be  just  in  what  is  odious 
and  blameable,  it  is  more  strongly  so  in  what 
is  amiable  and  praiseworthy.  Here  enmlation  most 
effectually  operates  upon  us,  and  inspires  our  imita- 
tion in  an  irresistible  manner.  A  good  man  there- 
fore is  a  standing  lesson  to  all  his  acquaintance,  and 
of  far  greater  use  in  that  narrow  circle  than  a  good 
book. 

But  as  it  often  happens  that  the  best  men  are  but 
little  known,  and  consequently  cannot  extend  the 
usefulness  of  their  examples  a  great  way  ;  the  writer 
may  be  called  in  aid  to  spread  their  history  farther, 

Veil.    1  * 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  to  present  the  amiable  pictures  to  those  who 
have  not  the  happiness  of  knowing  the  originals ; 
and  so,  by  communicating  such  valuable  patterns  to 
the  world,  he  may  perhaps  do  a  more  extensive  ser- 
vice to  mankind  than  the  person  whose  life  originally 
afforded  the  pattern. 

In  this  light  I  have  always  regarded  those  biogra- 
phers who  have  recorded  the  actions  of  great  and 
worthy  persons  of  both  sexes.  Not  to  mention  those 
antient  writers  which  of  late  days  are  little  read, 
being  written  in  obsolete,  and  as  they  are  generally 
thought,  unintelligible  languages,  such  as  Plutarch, 
Nepos,  and  others  which  I  heard  of  in  my  youth  ; 
our  own  language  affords  many  of  excellent  use  and 
instruction,  finely  calculated  to  sow  the  seeds  of 
virtue  in  youth,  and  very  easy  to  be  comprehended 
by  persons  of  moderate  capacity.  Such  as  the 
history  of  John  the  Great,  who,  by  his  brave  and 
heroic  actions  against  men  of  large  and  athletic 
bodies,  obtained  the  glorious  appellation  of  the 
Giant-killer ;  that  of  an  Earl  of  Warwick,  whose 
Christian  name  was  Guy ;  the  lives  of  Argalus  and 
Parthenia ;  and  above  all,  the  history  of  those  seven 
worthy  personages,  the  Champions  of  Christendom. 
In  all  these  delight  is  mixed  with  instruction,  and  the 
reader  is  almost  as  much  improved  as  entertained. 

But  I  pass  by  these  and  many  others  to  men- 
tion two  books  lately  published,  which  represent 
[2j 


THE    PREVALENCE    OF   EXAMPLE 

an  admirable  pattern  of  the  amiable  in  either  sex. 
The  former  of  these,  which  deals  in  male  virtue,  was 
written  by  the  great  person  himself,  who  lived  the 
life  he  hath  recorded,  and  is  by  many  thought  to 
have  lived  such  a  life  only  in  order  to  write  it.  The 
other  is  communicated  to  us  by  an  historian  who 
borrows  his  lights,  as  the  common  method  is,  from 
authentic  papers  and  records.  The  reader,  I  believe, 
already  conjectures,  I  mean  the  lives  of  Mr.  Colley 
Gibber  and  of  Mrs.  Pamela  Andrews.  How  artfully 
doth  the  former,  by  insinuating  that  he  escaped 
being  promoted  to  the  highest  stations  in  Church 
and  State,  teach  us  a  contempt  of  worldly  grandeur ! 
how  strongly  doth  he  inculcate  an  absolute  sub- 
mission to  our  superiors !  Lastly,  how  completely 
doth  he  arm  us  against  so  uneasy,  so  wretched  a 
passion  as  the  fear  of  shame !  how  clearly  doth  he 
expose  the  emptiness  and  vanity  of  that  phantom, 
reputation  ! 

What  the  female  readers  are  taught  by  the  mem- 
oirs of  Mrs.  Andrews  is  so  well  set  forth  in  the 
excellent  essays  or  letters  prefixed  to  the  second  and 
subsequent  editions  of  that  work,  that  it  would  be 
here  a  needless  repetition.  The  authentic  history  with 
which  I  now  present  the  public  is  an  instance  of  the 
great  good  that  book  is  likely  to  do,  and  of  the 
prevalence  of  example  which  I  have  just  observed: 
since  it  will  appear  that  it  was  by  keeping  the  excel- 

[8] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

lent  pattern  of  his  sister's  virtues  before  his  eyes, 
that  jMr.  Joseph  Andrews  was  chiefly  enabled  to  pre- 
serve his  purity  in  the  midst  of  such  great  tempta- 
tions. I  shall  only  add  that  this  character  of  male 
chastity,  though  doubtless  as  desirable  and  becoming 
in  one  part  of  the  human  species  as  in  the  other,  is 
almost  the  only  virtue  which  the  great  apologist  hath 
not  given  himself  for  the  sake  of  giving  the  example 
to  his  readers. 


[4j 


CHAPTER  TWO 

OF  MR.  JOSEPH  AKDUEWS,  HIS  BIRTH,  PARENTAGE,  EDUCA- 
TION', AND  GREAT  ENDOWMENTS  ;  WITH  A  WORD  OR 
TWO  CONCERNING  ANCESTORS. 

MR.  JOSEPH  ANDREWS,  the  hero  of 
our  ensuing  history,  was  esteemed  to 
be  the  only  son  of  Gaff'ar  and  Gam- 
mer Andrews,  and  brother  to  the 
illustrious  Pamela,  whose  virtue  is  at  present  so 
famous.  As  to  his  ancestors,  we  have  searched  with 
great  diligence,  but  little  success ;  being  unable  to 
trace  them  farther  than  his  great-grandfather,  who, 
as  an  elderly  pei-son  in  the  parish  remembers  to  have 
heard  his  father  say,  was  an  excellent  cudgel-player. 
"Wliether  he  had  any  ancestors  before  this,  we  must 
leave  to  the  opinion  of  our  curious  reader,  finding 
nothing  of  sufficient  certainty  to  rely  on.  However, 
we  cannot  omit  inserting  an  epitaph  which  an  ingen- 
ious friend  of  ours  hath  communicated  :  — 

Stay,  traveller,  for  underneath  this  pew 
Lies  fast  asleep  that  merry  man  Andrew  : 
When  the  last  day's  great  sun  shall  gild  the  skies, 
Tlien  he  shall  from  his  torab  get  up  and  rise. 
Be  merry  while  thou  canst  :  for  surely  thou 
Shalt  shortly  be  as  sad  as  he  is  now. 

[5J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

The  words  are  almost  out  of  the  stone  with  antiquitj. 
But  it  is  needless  to  observe  that  Andrew  here  is 
writ  without  an  s,  and  is,  besides,  a  Christian  name. 
My  friend,  moreover,  conjectures  this  to  have  been 
y  the  founder  of  that  sect  of  laughing  philosophers 
since  called  Merry-andrews. 

To  waive,  therefore,  a  circumstance  which,  though 
mentioned  in  conformity  to  the  exact  rules  of 
biography,  is  not  greatly  material,  I  proceed  to 
things  of  more  consequence.  Indeed,  it  is  sufficiently 
certain  that  he  had  as  many  ancestors  as  the  best 
man  living,  and,  perhaps,  if  we  look  five  or  six  hun- 
dred years  backwards,  might  be  related  to  some 
persons  of  very  great  figure  at  present,  whose  ances- 
tors within  half  the  last  century  are  buried  in  as 
great  obscurity.  But  suppose,  for  argument's  sake, 
we  should  admit  that  he  had  no  ancestors  at  all,  but 
had  sprung  up,  according  to  the  modern  phrase,  out 
of  a  dunghill,  as  the  Athenians  pretended  they  them- 
selves did  from  the  earth,  would  not  this  autokopros  ^ 
have  been  justly  entitled  to  all  the  praise  arising 
from  his  own  virtues.?  Would  it  not  be  hard  that  a 
man  who  hath  no  ancestors  should  therefore  be  ren- 
dered incapable  of  acquiring  honour;  when  we  see 
so  many  who  have  no  virtues  enjoying  the  honour  of 
their  forefathers  ?  At  ten  years  old  (  by  which  time 
his  education  was  advanced  to  writing  and  reading  ) 
1  In  English,  sprung  from  a  dunghill. 

[6] 


A    SPIRITED    RIDER 

he  was  bound  an  apprentice,  according  to  the  statute, 
to  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  an  uncle  of  Mr.  Booby's  by 
the  father's  side.  Sir  Thomas  having  then  an  estate 
in  his  own  hands,  the  young  Andrews  was  at  first 
employed  in  what  in  the  country  they  call  keeping 
birds.  His  office  was  to  perform  the  part  the  ancients 
assigned  to  the  god  Priapus,  which  deity  the  moderns 
call  by  the  name  of  Jack  o'  Lent ;  but  his  voice 
being  so  extremely  musical,  that  it  rather  allured 
the  birds  than  terrified  them,  he  was  soon  trans- 
planted from  the  fields  into  the  dog-kennel,  where 
he  was  placed  under  the  huntsman,  and  made  what 
the  sportsmen  term  whipper  -  in.  For  this  place 
likewise  the  sweetness  of  his  voice  disqualified  him  ; 
the  dogs  preferring  the  melody  of  his  chiding  to  all 
the  alluring  notes  of  the  huntsman,  who  soon  became 
so  incensed  at  it,  that  he  desired  Sir  Thomas  to  pro- 
vide otherwise  for  him,  and  constantly  laid  every  fault 
the  dogs  were  at  to  the  account  of  the  poor  boy, 
who  was  now  transplanted  to  the  stable.  Here  he 
soon  gave  proofs  of  strength  and  agility  beyond  his 
years,  and  constantly  rode  the  most  spirited  and 
vicious  horses  to  water,  with  an  intrepidity  which  sur- 
prised every  one.  While  he  was  in  this  station,  he 
rode  several  races  for  Sir  Thomas,  and  this  with  such 
expertness  and  success,  that  the  neighbouring  gentle- 
men frequently  solicited  the  knight  to  permit  little 
Joey  (  for  so  he  was  called )  to  ride  their  matches. 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

The  best  gamesters,  before  they  laid  their  money, 
always  inquired  which  horse  little  Joey  was  to  ride ; 
and  the  bets  were  rather  proportioned  by  the  rider 
than  by  the  horse  himself;  especially  after  he  had 
scornfully  refused  a  considerable  bribe  to  play  booty 
on  such  an  occasion.  This  extremely  raised  his  char- 
acter, and  so  pleased  the  Lady  Booby,  that  she  desired 
to  have  him  (  being  now  seventeen  years  of  age  )  for 
her  own  footboy. 

Joey  was  now  preferred  from  the  stable  to  attend 
on  his  lady,  to  go  on  her  errands,  stand  behind 
her  chair,  wait  at  her  tea-table,  and  carry  her  pra^er- 
book  to  church ;  at  which  place  his  voice  gave  him 
an  opportunity  of  distinguishing  himself  by  singing 
psalms :  he  behaved  likewise  in  every  other  respect  so 
well  at  Divine  service,  that  it  recommended  him  to 
the  notice  of  Mr.  Abraham  Adams,  the  curate,  who 
took  an  opportunity  one  day,  as  he  was  drinking  a 
cup  of  ale  in  Sir  Thomas's  kitchen,  to  ask  the  young 
roan  several  questions  concerning  religion  ;  with  his 
answers  to  which  he  was  wonderftilly  pleased. 


[8] 


CHAPTER  THREE 

OF  MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS  THE  CURATE,  JIRS.  SLIPSLOP  THE 
CHAMBERMAID,  AND  OTHERS. 

MR.  ABRAHAM  ADAMS  was  an  ex- 
cellent scholar.  He  was  a  perfect 
master  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  lan- 
guages ;  to  which  he  added  a  great  share 
of  knowledge  in  the  Oriental  tongues ;  and  could  read 
and  translate  French,  Italian,  and  Spanish.  He  had 
applied  many  years  to  the  most  severe  study,  and 
had  treasured  up  a  fund  of  learning  rarely  to  be  met 
with  in  a  university.  He  was,  besides,  a  man  of 
good  sense,  good  parts,  and  good  nature ;  but  was  at 
the  same  time  as  entirely  ignorant  of  the  ways  of 
this  world  as  an  infant  just  entered  into  it  could 
possibly  be.  As  he  had  never  any  intention  to 
deceive,  so  he  never  suspected  such  a  design  in  others. 
He  was  generous,  friendly,  and  brave  to  an  excess ; 
but  simplicity  was  his  characteristick  :  he  did, -no 
more  than  Mr.  Colley  Gibber,  apprehend  any  such 
passions  as  malice  and  envy  to  exist  in  mankind ; 
which  was  indeed  less  remarkable  in  a  countr}"^  parson 
than  in  a  gentleman  who  hath  passed  his  life  behind 

[9] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

the  scenes,  —  a  place  which  hath  been  seldom  thought 
the  school  of  innocence,  and  where  a  very  little 
observation  would  have  convinced  the  great  apologist 
that  those  passions  have  a  real  existence  in  the 
human  mind. 

His  virtue,  and  his  other  qualifications,  as  they 
rendered  him  equal  to  his  office,  so  they  made  hira 
an  agreeable  and  valuable  companion,  and  had  so 
much  endeared  and  well  recommended  him  to  a 
bishop,  that  at  the  age  of  fifty  he  Avas  provided  with 
a  handsome  income  of  twenty-three  pounds  a  year ; 
which,  however,  he  could  not  make  any  great  figure 
with,  because  he  lived  in  a  dear  country,  and  was  a 
little  encumbered  Avith  a  wife  and  six  children.  ] 

It  was  this  gentleman,  who  having,  as  I  have  said, 
observed  the  singular  devotion  of  young  Andrews, 
had  found  means  to  question  him  concerning  several 
particulars ;  as,  how  many  books  there  were  in  the 
New  Testament  ?  which  were  they  ?  how  many  chap- 
ters they  contained  ?  and  such  like  :  to  all  which,  Mr. 
Adams  privately  said,  he  answered  much  better  than 
Sir  Thomas,  or  two  other  neighbouring  justices  of 
the  peace  could  probably  have  done. 

Mr.  Adams  was  wonderfully  solicitous  to  know  at 
what  time,  and  by  what  opportunity,  the  youth 
became  acquainted  with  these  matters  :  Joey  told 
him  that  he  had  very  early  learnt  to  read  and  write 
by  the  goodness  of  his  father,  who,  though  he  had 

LAO] 


INSTANCES    OF   APPLICATION 

not  interest  enough  to  get  him  into  a  charity  school, 
because  a  cousin  of  his  father's  landlord  did  not  vote 
on  the  right  side  for  a  churchwarden  in  a  borough 
town,  yet  had  been  himself  at  the  expense  of  six- 
pence a  week  for  his  learning.  He  told  him  likewise, 
that  ever  since  he  was  in  Sir  Thomas's  family  he  had 
employed  all  his  hours  of  leisure  in  reading  good 
books  ;  that  he  had  read  the  Bible,  the  Whole  Duty 
of  Man,  and  Thomas  a  Kempis ;  and  that  as  often 
as  he  could,  without  being  perceived,  he  had  studied 
a  great  good  book  w  hich  lay  open  in  the  hall  window, 
where  he  had  read,  "  as  how  the  devil  carried  away 
half  a  church  in  sermon-time,  without  hurting  one 
of  the  congregation  ;  and  as  how  a  field  of  corn  ran 
away  down  a  hill  with  all  the  trees  upon  it,  and 
covered  another  man's  meadow."  This  sufficiently 
assured  Mr.  Adams  that  the  good  book  meant  could 
be  no  other  than  Baker's  Chronicle. 

The  curate,  surprized  to  find  such  instances  of 
industry  and  application  in  a  young  man  who  had 
never  met  with  the  least  encouragement,  asked  him. 
If  he  did  not  extremely  regret  the  want  of  a  liberal 
education,  and  the  not  having  been  born  of  parents 
who  might  have  indulged  his  talents  and  desire  of 
knowledge  ?  To  which  he  answered,  "  He  hoped  he 
had  profited  somewhat  better  from  the  books  he  had 
read  than  to  lament  his  condition  in  this  world. 
That,  for  his  part,  he  was  perfectly  content  with  the 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

state  to  whicla  he  was  called  ;  that  he  should  endeav- 
our to  improve  his  talent,  which  was  all  required  of 
him  ;  but  not  repine  at  his  own  lot,  nor  envy  those 
of  his  betters/'  "  Well  said,  my  lad,''  replied  the 
curate ;  "  and  I  wish  some  who  have  read  many 
more  good  books,  nay,  and  some  who  have  written 
good  books  themselves,  had  profited  so  much  by 
them." 

Adams  had  no  nearer  access  to  Sir  Thomas  or  my 
lady  than  through  the  waiting-gentlewoman  ;  for  Sir 
Thomas  was  too  apt  to  estimate  men  merely  by  their 
dress  or  fortune  ;  and  my  lady  was  a  woman  of  gaiety, 
wlio  had  been  blest  with  a  town  education,  and  never 
spoke  of  any  of  her  country  neighbours  by  any  other 
appellation  than  that  of  the  brutes.  They  both 
regarded  the  curate  as  a  kind  of  domestic  only, 
belonging  to  the  parson  of  the  parish,  who  was  at 
this  time  at  variance  with  the  knight ;  for  the  parson 
had  for  many  years  lived  in  a  constant  state  of  civil 
war,  or,  which  is  perhaps  as  bad,  of  civil  law,  with 
Sir  Thomas  himself  and  the  tenants  of  his  manor. 
The  foundation  of  this  quan'el  was  a  modus,  by  set- 
ting which  aside  an  advantage  of  several  shillings 
per  annum  would  have  accrued  to  the  rector  ;  but  he 
had  not  yet  been  able  to  accomplish  his  puipose, 
and  had  reaped  hitherto  nothing  better  from  the 
suits  than  the  pleasure  (which  he  used  indeed  fre- 
quently to  say  was  no  small  one)  of  reflecting  that 
[12] 


FREQUENT    DISPUTES 

he  had  vitterly  undone  many  of  the  poor  tenants, 
though  he  had  at  the  same  time  greatly  impoverished 
himself. 

Mrs.  Slipslop,  the  waiting-gentlewoman,  being 
herself  the  daughter  of  a  curate,  preserved  some 
respect  for  Adams  :  she  professed  great  regard  for 
his  learning,  and  would  frequently  dispute  with  him 
on  points  of  theology ;  but  always  insisted  on  a 
deference  to  be  paid  to  her  understanding,  as  she 
had  been  frequently  at  London,  and  knew  more  of 
tlie  world  than  a  country  parson  could  pretend  to. 

She  had  in  these  disputes  a  particular  advantage 
over  Adams :  for  she  was  a  mighty  affecter  of  hard 
words,  which  she  used  in  such  a  manner  that  the 
parson,  who  durst  not  offend  her  by  calling  her  words 
in  question,  was  frequently  at  some  loss  to  guess  her 
meaning,  and  would  have  been  much  less  puzzled  by 
an  Arabian  manuscript. 

Adams  therefore  took  an  opportunity  one  day, 
after  a  pretty  long  discourse  with  her  on  the  essence 
(or,  as  she  pleased  to  term  it,  the  incence)  of  matter, 
to  mention  the  case  of  young  Andrews ;  desiring  her 
to  recommend  him  to  her  lady  as  a  youth  very  sus- 
ceptible of  learning,  and  one  whose  instruction  in 
Latin  ho  would  himself  undertake  ;  by  which  means 
he  might  be  qualified  for  a  higher  station  than  that 
of  a  footiiian  ;  and  added,  she  knew  it  was  in  his 
master's  power  casilv  to  pre  ide  for  him  in  a-  better 
[13] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

manner.     He  therefore  desired  that  the  boy  might 
be  left  behind  under  his  care. 

"  La !  Mr.  Adams,"  said  Mrs.  Shpslop,  "  do  you 
think  my  lady  will  suffer  any  preambles  about  any 
such  matter  ?  She  is  going  to  London  very  concisely, 
and  I  am  confidous  would  not  leave  Joey  behind  her 
on  any  account ;  for  he  is  one  of  the  genteelest  young 
fellows  you  may  see  in  a  summer''s  day ;  and  I  am 
confidous  she  would  as  soon  think  of  parting  with  a 
pair  of  her  grey  mares,  for  she  values  herself  as  much 
on  one  as  the  other."  Adams  would  have  interrupted, 
but  she  proceeded :  "  And  why  is  Latin  more  neces- 
sitous for  a  footman  than  a  gentleman  ,''  It  is  very 
proper  that  you  clergymen  must  learn  it,  because 
you  can"'t  preach  without  it :  but  I  have  heard  gentle- 
men say  in  London,  that  it  is  fit  for  nobody  else.  I 
am  confidous  my  lady  would  be  angry  with  me  for 
mentioning  it ;  and  I  shall  draw  myself  into  no  such 
delemy."  At  which  words  her  lady"'s  bell  rung,  and 
Mr.  Adams  was  forced  to  retire ;  nor  could  he  gain  a 
second  opportunity  with  her  before  their  London 
journey,  which  happened  a  few  days  afterwards. 
However,  Andrews  behaved  very  thankfully  and 
gi'atefully  to  him  for  his  intended  kindness,  which  he 
told  him  he  never  would  forget,  and  at  the  same 
time  received  from  the  good  man  many  admonitions 
concerning  the  regulation  of  his  future  conduct,  and 
his  perseverance  in  innocence  and  industry. 
[14] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

WHAT    HAPPENED     AFTER    THEIR   JOTTRNEY    TO    LOXDON. 

NO  sooner  was  young  Andrews  arrived  at 
London  than  he  began  to  scrape  an 
acquaintance  with  his  party-coloured 
brethren,  who  endeavoured  to  make 
him  despise  his  former  course  of  hfe.  His  hair  was 
cut  after  the  newest  fashion,  and  became  his  chief 
care;  he  went  abroad  with  it  all  the  morning  in 
papers,  and  drest  it  out  in  the  afternoon.  They 
could  not,  however,  teach  him  to  game,  swear,  drink, 
nor  any  other  genteel  vice  the  town  abounded  with. 
He  applied  most  of  his  leisure  hours  to  music,  in 
which  he  greatly  improved  himself;  and  became  so 
perfect  a  connoisseur  in  that  art,  that  he  led  the 
opinion  of  all  the  other  footmen  at  an  opera,  and 
they  never  condemned  or  applauded  a  single  song 
contrary  to  his  approbation  or  dislike.  He  was  a 
little  too  forward  in  riots  at  the  play-liouses  and 
assemblies ;  and  when  he  attended  his  lady  at  church 
(which  was  but  seldom)  he  behaved  with  less  seeming 
devotion  than  formerly :  however,  if  he  was  out- 
wardly a  pretty  fellow,  his  morals  remained  entirely 
[15] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

uncoiTupted,  though  he  was  at  the  same  tiniesniarccr 
and  genteeler  than  any  of  the  beaus  in  town,  either 
in  or  out  of  livery. 

His  lady,  who  had  often  said  of  him  that  Joey 
was  the  handsomest  and  genteelest  footman  in  the 
kingdom,  but  that  it  was  pity  he  wanted  spirit, 
began  now  to  find  that  fault  no  longer  ;  on  the  con- 
trary, she  was  frequently  heard  to  cry  out,  *^  Ay, 
there  is  some  life  in  this  fellow."'  She  plainly  saw 
the  effects  which  the  town  air  hath  on  the  soberest 
constitutions.  She  would  now  walk  out  with  him 
into  Hyde  Park  in  a  morning,  and  when  tired,  which 
happened  almost  every  minute,  would  lean  on  his 
arm,  and  converse  with  him  in  gi'eat  familiarity. 
Whenever  she  stept  out  of  her  coach,  she  w  ould  take 
him  by  the  hand,  and  sometimes,  for  fear  of  stum- 
bling, press  it  very  hard  ;  she  admitted  him  to  deliver 
messages  at  her  bedside  in  a  morning,  leered  at  him 
at  table,  and  indulged  him  in  all  those  innocent 
freedoms  which  women  of  figure  may  permit  M'ithout 
the  least  sully  of  their  virtue. 

But  though  their  virtue  remains  unsullied,  yet 
now  and  then  some  small  arrows  will  glance  on  the 
shadow  of  it,  their  reputation  ;  and  so  it  fell  out  to 
Lady  Booby,  who  happened  to  be  walking  arm-in- 
arm with  Joey  one  morning  in  Hyde  Park,  when 
Lady  Tittle  and  Lady  Tattle  came  accidentally  by 
in  their  coach.  "  Bless  me,"'  savs  Lady  Tittle,  "  can 
[16]    ■ 


A    WHISPERED    SCANDAL 

I  believe  my  eyes  ?  Is  that  Lady  Booby  ? "  — 
"  Surely/'  says  Tattle.  "  But  what  makes  you  sur- 
prized ? "  —  "  Why,  is  not  that  her  footman  ?  *" 
replied  Tittle.  At  which  Tattle  laughed,  and  cried, 
"  An  old  business,  I  assure  you  :  is  it  possible  you 
should  not  have  heard  it  ?  The  whole  town  hath 
known  it  this  half-year."  The  consequence  of  this 
interview  was  a  Avhisper  through  a  hundred  visits, 
which  w  ere  separately  performed  by  the  two  ladies  ^ 
the  same  afternoon,  and  might  have  had  a  mischiev- 
ous effect,  had  it  not  been  stopt  by  two  fresh  repu- 
tations which  were  published  the  day  afterwards, 
and  engrossed  the  whole  talk  of  the  town. 

But,  whatever  opinion  or  suspicion  the  scandalous 
inclination  of  defamers  might  entertain  of  Lady 
Booby's  innocent  freedoms,  it  is  certain  they  made 
no  impression  on  young  Andrews,  who  never  offered 
to  encroach  be^-ond  the  liberties  which  his  lady 
allowed  him, — a  behaviour  which  she  imputed  to 
the  violent  respect  he  preserved  for  her,  and  which 
served  only  to  heighten  a  something  she  began  to 
conceive,  and  which  the  next  chapter  ^\^ll  open  a 
little  farther. 

^  It  may  seem  an  absurdity  that  Tattle  should  \-isit,  as  she 
actually  did,  to  spread  a  known  scandal  .-  but  the  reader  maj"- 
reconcile  this  by  supposing,  with  me,  that,  notwithstanding 
what  she  says,  this  was  her  first  acquaintance  Avith  it. 

[17] 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

THE  DEATH  OF  SIE  THOMAS  BOOBY,  WITH  THE  AF- 
FECTIONATE AND  MOURNFUL  BEHAVIOUR  OF  HIS 
WIDOW,  AND  THE  GREAT  PURITY  OF  JOSEPH 
ANDREWS. 

jA  T  this  time  an  accident  happened  which  put 
/  ^k  ^  ^^®P  ^°  those  agreeable  walks,  which 
f"^^  probably  would  have  soon  puffed  up  the 
•^  "^^  cheeks  of  Fame,  and  caused  her  to  blow 
her  brazen  trumpet  through  the  to\vn ;  and  this  was 
no  other  than  the  death  of  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  who, 
departing  this  life,  left  his  disconsolate  lady  confined 
to  her  house,  as  closely  as  if  she  herself  had  been 
attacked  by  some  violent  disease.  During  the  first 
six  days  the  poor  lady  admitted  none  but  Mrs. 
Slipslop,  and  three  female  friends,  who  made  a  party 
at  cards :  but  on  the  seventh  she  ordered  Joey, 
whom,  for  a  good  reason,  we  shall  hereafter  call 
Joseph,  to  bring  up  her  tea-kettle.  The  lady  being 
in  bed,  called  Joseph  to  her,  bade  him  sit  down,  and, 
having  accidentally  laid  her  hand  on  his,  she  asked 
him  if  he  had  ever  been  in  love.  Joseph  answered, 
[18] 


DESIGNS    UPON    JOSEPH 

with  some  confusion,  it  was  time  enough  for  one  so 
young  as  himself  to  think  on  such  things.  "As 
young  as  you  are,"  replied  the  lady,  "  I  am  convinced 
you  are  no  stranger  to  that  passion.  Come,  Joey," 
says  she,  "  tell  me  truly,  who  is  the  happy  girl  whose 
eyes  have  made  a  conquest  of  you  ?  "  Joseph  returned, 
that  all  the  women  he  had  ever  seen  were  equally 
indifferent  to  him.  "  Oh  then,"  said  the  lady,  "  you 
are  a  general  lover.  Indeed,  3-ou  handsome  fellows, 
like  handsome  women,  arc  very  long  and  difficult  in 
fixing ;  but  yet  you  shall  never  persuade  me  that 
your  heart  is  so  insusceptible  of  affection ;  I  rather 
impute  what  you  say  to  your  secrecy,  a  very  com- 
mendable quality,  and  what  I  am  far  from  being 
angry  with  you  for.  Nothing  can  be  more  unworthy 
in  a  young  man,  than  to  betray  any  intimacies  with 
the  ladies."  "  Ladies  !  madam,"  said  Joseph,  "  I  am 
sure  I  never  had  the  impudence  to  think  of  any  that 
deserve  that  name."  "  Don't  pretend  to  too  much 
modesty,"  said  she,  "  for  that  sometimes  may  be 
impertinent :  but  pray  answer  me  this  question. 
Suppose  a  lady  should  happen  to  like  you  ;  suppose 
she  should  prefer  you  to  all  your  sex,  and  admit  you 
to  the  same  familiarities  as  you  might  have  hoped 
for  if  you  had  been  born  her  equal,  are  you  certain 
that  no  vanity  could  tempt  you  to  discover  her  ? 
Answer  me  honestly,  Joseph ;  have  you  so  much  more 
sense  and  so  much  more  virtue  than  you  handsome 
[19j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

young  fellows  generally  have,  who  make  no  scruple 
of  sacrificing  our  dear  reputation  to  your  pride,  with- 
out considering  the  great  obligation  we  lay  on  you 
by  our  condescension  and  confidence  ?  Can  you 
keep  a  secret,  my  Joey  ?  "  "  Madam,"  says  he,  "  I 
hope  your  ladyship  can't  tax  me  with  ever  betraying 
the  secrets  of  the  family  ;  and  I  hope,  if  you  was  to 
turn  me  away,  I  might  have  that  character  of  you." 
"  I  don't  intend  to  turn  you  away,  Joey,"  said  she,  and 
sighed  ;  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  in  my  power."  She 
then  raised  herself  a  little  in  her  bed,  and  discovered 
one  of  the  whitest  necks  that  ever  was  seen  ;  at  which 
Joseph  blushed.  "  La !  "  says  she,  in  an  affected 
surprize,  "  what  am  I  doing  ?  I  have  trusted  myself 
with  a  man  alone,  naked  in  bed  ;  suppose  you  should 
have  any  wicked  intentions  upon  my  honour,  how 
should  I  defend  myself.''"  Joseph  protested  that  he 
never  had  the  least  evil  design  against  her.  "  No," 
says  she,  "perhaps  you  may  not  call  your  designs 
wicked  ;  and  perhaps  they  are  not  so."  —  He  swore 
they  were  not.  "  You  misimdei-stand  me,"  sa^'s  she 
"  I  mean  if  they  were  against  my  honour,  they  mav 
not  be  wicked ;  but  the  world  calls  them  so.  But 
then,  say  you,  the  world  will  never  know  anvthing 
of  the  matter ;  vet  would  not  that  be  trustincj  to 
your  secrecy  ?  Must  not  my  reputation  be  then  in 
your  power  ?  Would  you  not  then  be  my  master  .'' " 
Joseph  begged  her  ladvbhip  to  be  comforted ;  for 
[*20] 


JOSEPirS    PURITY 

that  he  would  nevei'  imagine  the  least  wicked  thing 
against  her,  and  that  he  had  rather  die  a  thousand 
deaths  than  give  her  any  reason  to  suspect  him. 
"  Yes,"'  said  she,  "  I  must  have  reason  to  sus[)ect  you. 
Are  you  not  a  man  ?  and,  without  vanity,  I  may 
pretend  to  some  charms.  But  perhaps  you  may  fear  I 
should  prosecute  you  ;  indeed  I  hope  you  do ;  and  yet 
Heaven  knows  I  should  never  have  the  confidence 
to  appear  before  a  court  of  justice  ;  and  you  know, 
Joey,  I  am  of  a  forgiving  temper.  Tell  me,  Joey, 
don't  you  think  I  should  forgive  you  ?  '^  —  "  Indeed, 
madam,"  says  Joseph,  "  I  will  never  do  anything  to 
disoblige  your  ladyship."  —  "  How,"  says  she,  "  do 
you  think  it  would  not  disoblige  me  then  ?  Do  you 
think  I  Mould  willingly  suffer  you?"  —  "I  don't 
understand  you,  madam,"  says  Joseph.  —  "  Don't 
you  ? "  said  she,  "  then  you  are  either  a  fool,  or 
pretend  to  be  so  ;  I  find  I  was  mistaken  in  you.  So 
get  you  downstairs,  and  never  let  me  see  your  face 
again  ;  your  pretended  innocence  cannot  impose  on 
me."  —  "  Madam,"  said  Joseph,  "  I  would  not  have 
your  ladyship  think  any  evil  of  me.  I  have  always 
endeavoured  to  be  a  dutiful  servant  both  to  you  and 
my  master." —  "  O  thou  villain  !  "  answered  my  lady  ; 
"  why  didst  thou  mention  the  name  of  that  dear 
man,  unless  to  torment  me,  to  bring  his  precious 
memory  to  my  mind .'' "  (and  then  she  burst  into  a 
fit  of  tears.)  "  Get  thee  from  my  sight !  I  shall 
[21] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

never  endure  thee  more."  At  ■which  words  she 
turned  away  from  him ;  and  Joseph  retreated  from 
the  room  in  a  most  disconsolate  condition,  and  writ 
that  letter  which  the  reader  will  find  in  the  next 
chapter. 


[2«] 


CHAPTER    SIX 

HOW  JOSEPH    ANDREWS  WRIT  A   LETTER  TO  HIS    SISTEE 
PAMELA. 

•*  To  Mns.  Pamela  Andrews,  Itvinff  with  Squire  Booby. 

DEAR  SISTER,  — Since  I  received  your 
letter  of  your  good  lady's  death,  we  have 
had  a  misfortune  of  the  same  kind  in  our 
family.  My  worthy  master  Sir  Thomas 
died  about  four  days  ago ;  and,  what  is  worse,  my  poor 
lady  is  certainly  gone  distracted.  None  of  the  servants 
expected  her  to  take  it  so  to  heart,  because  they  quar- 
relled almost  every  day  of  their  lives  :  but  no  more  of 
that,  because  you  know,  Pamela,  I  never  loved  to  tell 
the  secrets  of  my  master's  family ;  but  to  be  sure  you 
must  have  known  they  never  loved  one  another ;  and  I 
have  heard  her  ladyship  wish  his  honour  dead  above  a 
thousand  times ;  but  nobody  knows  what  it  is  to  lose  a 
friend  till  they  have  lost  him. 

"  Don't  tell  anybody  what  I  write,  because  I  should 
not  care  to  have  folks  say  I  discover  what  passes  in  our 
family ;  but  if  it  had  not  been  so  great  a  lady,  I  should 
have  thought  she  had  had  a  mind  to  me.  Dear  Pamela, 
don't  tell  anybody ;  but  she  ordered  me  to  sit  down  by 
her  bedside,  when  she  was  in  naked  bed  ;  and  she  held 
my  hand,  and  talked  exactly  as  a  lady  does  to  her  sweet- 
heart in  a  stage-play,  which  I  have  seen  in  G>vent 
[23] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Garden,  while  she  wanted  him  to  be  no  better  than  he 
should  be. 

'*'  If  madam  be  mad,  f  shall  not  care  for  staying  long 
in  the  family ;  so  I  heartily  wish  you  could  get  me  a 
place,  either  at  the  squire's,  or  some  other  neighbouring 
gentleman's,  unless  it  be  true  that  you  are  going  to  be 
married  to  parson  Williams,  as  folks  talk,  and  then  I 
should  be  very  willing  to  be  his  clerk ;  for  which  you 
know  I  am  qualified,  being  able  to  read  and  to  set  a 
psalm. 

"  I  fancy  I  shall  be  discharged  very  soon ;  and  the 
moment  I  am,  unless  I  hear  from  you,  I  shall  return  to 
my  old  master's  country-seat,  if  it  be  only  to  see  parson 
Adams,  who  is  the  best  man  in  the  world.  London  is 
a  bad  place,  and  there  is  so  little  good  fellowship,  that 
the  next-door  neighbours  don't  know  one  another. 
Pray  give  my  service  to  all  friends  that  inquire  for  me. 
So  I  rest 

"  Your  loving  brother, 

"Joseph  Andrews." 

As  soon  a«  Joseph  had  sealed  and  directed  this 
letter  he  walked  downstairs,  where  he  met  Mrs.  Slip- 
slop, with  whom  we  shall  take  this  opportunity  to 
bring  the  reader  a  little  better  acquainted.  She  was 
a  maiden  gentlewoman  of  about  forty-five  years  of 
age,  who,  having  made  a  small  slip  in  her  youth,  had 
continued  a  good  maid  ever  since.  She  was  not  at 
this  time  remarkably  handsome ;  being  very  short, 
and  rather  too  corpulent  in  body,  and  somewhat  red, 
with  the  addition  of  pimples  in  the  face.  Her  nose 
[24] 


MRS.    SLIPSLOP 

was  likewise  rather  too  large,  and  her  eyes  too  little ; 
nor  did  she  resemble  a  cow  so  much  in  her  breath  as 
in  two  brown  globes  which  she  cairied  before  her; 
one  of  her  legs  was  also  a  httle  shorter  than  the 
other,  which  occasioned  her  to  limp  as  slie  walked. 
This  fair  creature  had  long  cast  the  eyes  of  affection 
on  Joseph,  in  which  she  had  not  met  with  quite  so 
good  success  as  she  probably  wished,  though,  besides 
the  allurements  of  her  native  charms,  she  had  given 
him  tea,  sweetmeats,  wine,  and  many  other  delicacies, 
of  which,  by  keeping  the  keys,  she  had  the  absolute 
command.     Joseph,  however,  had  not  returned  the 
least  gratitude  to  all  these  favours,  not  even  so  much 
as  a  kiss ;  though  I  would  not  insinuate  she  was  so 
easily  to  be  satisfied ;  for  surely  then  he  would  have 
been  highly  blameable.     The  truth  is,  she  was  arrived 
at  an  age  when  she  thought  she  might  indulge  her- 
self in  any  liberties  with  a  man,  without  the  danger 
of  bringing  a  third  person  into  the  world  to  betray 
them.     She  imagined  that  by  so  long  a  self-denial 
she  had  not  only  made  amends  for  the  small  slip  of 
her  youth  above  hinted  at,  but  had  Hkewise  laid  up 
a  quantity  of  merit  to  excuse  any  futui-e  failings. 
In  a  word,  she  resolved  to  give  a  loose  to  her  amorous 
inclinations,  and  to   pay  off  the  debt  of  pleasure 
which  she  found  she  owed  herself,  as  fast  as  possible. 
With  these  charms  of  person,  and  in  this  disposi- 
tion of  mind,  she  encountered  poor  Joseph  at  the 
[25] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

bottom  of  the  stairs,  and  asked  him  if  he  would  drink 
a  glass  of  something  good  this  morning.  Joseph, 
whose  spirits  were  not  a  little  cast  down,  very 
readily  and  thankfully  accepted  the  offer ;  and 
together  they  went  into  a  closet,  where,  having 
delivei-ed  him  a  fiill  glass  of  ratafia,  and  desired  him 
to  sit  down,  Mrs.  Slipslop  thus  began  :  — 

"  Sure  nothing  can  be  a  more  simple  contract  in 
a  woman  than  to  place  her  affections  on  a  boy.  If 
I  had  ever  thought  it  would  have  been  my  fate,  I 
should  have  wished  to  die  a  thousand  deaths  rather 
than  live  to  see  that  day.  If  we  like  a  man,  the 
lightest  hint  sophisticates.  AVljereas  a  boy  proposes 
upon  us  to  break  through  all  the  regulations  of 
modesty,  before  we  can  make  any  oppression  upon 
him."  Joseph,  who  did  not  understand  a  word  she 
said,  answered,  *'  Yes,  madam."  —  "  Yes,  madam  ! " 
replied  Mrs.  Slipslop  with  some  warmth,  "  Do  you 
intend  to  result  my  passion  ?  Is  it  not  enough, 
ungrateful  as  you  are,  to  make  no  return  to  all  the 
favours  I  have  done  you ;  but  you  must  treat  me 
with  ironing  .'*  Barbarous  monster !  how  have  I 
deserved  that  my  passion  should  be  resulted  and 
treated  with  ironing  ?  "  "  Madam,"  answered  Joseph, 
"I  don't  understand  your  hard  words;  but  I  am 
ceiiain  you  have  no  occasion  to  call  me  ungrateful, 
for,  so  far  from  intending  you  any  wrong,  I  have 
always  loved  you  as  well  as  if  you  had  been  my  own 
[26] 


JOSEPH'S    ESCAPE 

mother.'*'  "  How,  sirrah  ! "  says  Mrs.  Slipslop  in  a 
rage  ;  "  your  own  mother  ?  Do  you  assinuate  that 
I  am  old  enough  to  be  your  mother  ?  I  don't 
know  what  a  stripling  may  think,  but  I  believe  a 
man  would  refer  me  to  any  green-sickness  silly  girl 
whatsomdever :  but  I  ought  to  despise  you  rather 
than  be  angry  with  you,  for  referring  the  conver- 
sation of  girls  to  that  of  a  woman  of  sense,'"  — 
"  Madam,'"  says  Joseph,  "  I  am  sure  I  have  always 
valued  the  honour  you  did  me  by  your  conversation, 
for  I  know  you  are  a  woman  of  learning."  —  "  Yes, 
but,  Joseph,"  said  she,  a  little  softened  by  the  com- 
pliment to  her  learning,  "  if  you  had  a  value  for  me, 
you  certainly  would  have  found  some  method  of 
showing  it  me  ;  for  I  am  convicted  you  must  see  the 
value  I  have  for  you.  Yes,  Joseph,  my  eyes,  whether 
I  would  or  no,  nmst  have  declared  a  passion  I  cannot 
conquer.  —  Oh  !  Joseph  ! "" 

As  when  a  hungry  tigi*ess,  who  long  has  traversed 
the  woods  in  fruitless  search,  sees  within  the  reach  of 
her  claws  a  lamb,  she  prepares  to  leap  on  her  prey  ; 
or  as  a  voracious  pike,  of  immense  size,  surveys 
through  the  liquid  element  a  roach  or  gudgeon, 
which  cannot  escape  her  jaws,  opens  them  wide  to 
swallow  the  little  fish ;  so  did  Mrs.  Slipslop  prepare 
to  lay  her  violent  amorous  hands  on  the  poor  Joseph, 
when  luckily  her  mistress's  bell  rung,  and  delivered 
the  intended  martyr  from  her  clutches.     She  was 

[a7j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

obliged  to  leave  him  abruptly,  and  to  defer  the 
execution  of  her  purpose  till  some  other  time.  We 
shall  therefore  return  to  the  Lady  Booby,  and  give 
our  reader  some  account  of  her  behaviour,  after  she 
was  left  by  Joseph  in  a  temper  of  inind  not  greatly 
different  from  that  of  the  inflamed  Slipslop. 


[28] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

SAYINGS  OF  WISE  MEN.  A  DIALOGUE  BETWEEN  THE  LADY 
AND  HER  MAID  ;  AND  A  PANEGYRIC,  OR  RATHER 
SATIRE,  ON  THE  PASSION  OF  LOVE,  IN   THE   SUBLIME 

STYLE. 

IT  is  the  observation  of  some  antient  sage, 
whose  name  I  have  forgot,  that  passions  operate 
differently  on  the  human  mind,  as  diseases  on 
the  body,  in  proportion  to  the  strength  or 
weakness,  soundness  or  rottenness,  of  the  one  and 
the  other. 

We  hope,  therefore,  a  judicious  reader  will  give 
himself  some  pains  to  observe,  what  we  have  so  greatly 
laboured  to  describe,  the  different  operations  of  this 
passion  of  love  in  the  gentle  and  cultivated  mind  of 
the  Lady  Booby,  from  those  which  it  effected  in  the 
less  polished  and  coarser  disposition  of  Mrs.  Slipslop. 
Another  philosopher,  whose  name  also  at  present 
escapes  my  memory,  hath  somewhere  said,  that  reso- 
lutions taken  in  the  absence  of  the  beloved  object 
are  very  apt  to  vanish  in  its  presence ;  on  both  which 
wise  sayings  the  following  chapter  may  serve  as  a 
comment. 

[29] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

No  sooner  had  Joseph  left  the  room  in  the  man- 
ner we  liave  before  related  than  the  lady,  enraged 
at  her  disappointment,  began  to  reflect  with  severity 
on  her  conduct.  Her  love  was  now  changed  to  dis- 
dain, which  pride  assisted  to  torment  her.  She 
despised  herself  for  the  meanness  of  her  passion,  and 
Joseph  for  its  ill  success.  However,  she  had  now 
got  the  better  of  it  in  her  own  opinion,  and  deter- 
mined immediately  to  dismiss  the  object.  After 
much  tossing  and  turning  in  her  bed,  and  many 
soliloquies,  which  if  we  had  no  better  matter  for  our 
reader  we  would  give  him,  she  at  last  rung  the  bell 
as  above  mentioned,  and  was  presently  attended  by 
Mi's.  Slipslop,  who  was  not  much  better  pleased  with 
Joseph  than  the  lady  herself. 

"  Slipslop,""  said  Lady  Booby,  "  when  did  you  see 
Joseph  ? ""  The  poor  woman  was  so  surprized  at  the 
unexpected  sound  of  his  name  at  so  critical  a  time, 
that  she  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  conceal  the 
confusion  she  was  under  from  her  mistress ;  whom 
she  answered,  nevertheless,  with  pretty  good  confi- 
dence, though  not  entirely  void  of  fear  of  suspicion, 
that  she  had  not  seen  him  that  morning.  "I  am 
afraid,"  said  Lady  Booby,  "he  is  a  wild  young 
fellow. ""  — "  That  he  is,"  said  Slipslop,  "  and  a  wicked 
one  too.  To  my  knowledge  he  games,  drinks,  swears, 
and  fights  eternally  ;  besides,  he  is  horribly  indicted 
to  wenching."  — "  Ay  ! "  said  the  lady,  "  I  never 
[30] 


A    DIALOGUE 

heard  that  of  him."  —  "  O  madam  ! "  answered  the 
other,  "  he  is  so  lewd  a  rascal,  that  if  your  ladyship 
keeps  him  much  longer,  you  will  not  have  one  virgin 
in  your  house  except  myself.  And  yet  I  can't  con- 
ceive what  the  wenches  see  in  him,  to  be  so  foolishly 
fond  as  they  are ;  in  my  eyes,  he  is  as  ugly  a  scare- 
crow as  I  ever  upheld."  — "  Nay,"  said  the  lady, 
"the  boy  is  well  enough," — "La!  ma'am,"  cries 
Slipslop,  "  1  think  him  the  ragmaticallest  fellow  in 
the  family,"  —  "  Sure,  SHpslop,"  says  she,  "you  are 
mistaken  :  but  which  of  the  women  do  you  most 
suspect?"  —  "Madam,"  says  Slipslop,  "there  is 
Betty  the  chambermaid,  I  am  almost  convicted,  is 
with  child  by  him."  —  "  Ay  !  "  says  the  lady,  "  then 
pray  pay  her  her  wages  instantly.  I  will  keep  no 
such  sluts  in  my  family.  And  as  for  Joseph,  you 
may  discard  him  too."  — "  Would  your  ladyship 
have  him  paid  oif  immediately  ?  "  cries  Slipslop,  "  for 
perhaps,  when  Betty  is  gone  he  may  mend  :  and 
really  the  boy  is  a  good  servant,  and  a  strong  healthy 
luscious  boy  enough."  —  "  This  morning,"  answered 
the  lady  with  some  vehemence.  "  I  wish,  madam," 
cries  Slipslop,  "your  ladyship  would  be  so  good  as 
to  try  him  a  little  longer."  —  "I  will  not  have  my 
commands  disputed,"  said  the  lady ;  "  sure  you  are 
not  fond  of  him  yourself.?  "  —  "  I,  madam  ! "  cries 
Slipslop,  reddening,  if  not  blushing,  "  I  should  be 
sorry  to  think  your  ladyship  had  any  reason  to 
[31] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

respect  me  of  fondness  for  a  fellow  ;  and  if  it  be  your 
pleasure,  I  shall  fulfil  it  with  as  much  reluctance  as 
possible."  —  "As  little,  I  suppose  you  mean,"'  said 
the  lady ;  "  and  so  about  it  instantly."  Mi"s.  Slip- 
slop went  out,  and  the  lady  had  scarce  taken  two 
turns  before  she  fell  to  knocking  and  ringing  with 
great  violence.  Slipslop,  who  did  not  travel  post 
haste,  soon  returned,  and  was  countermanded  as  to 
Joseph,  but  ordered  to  send  Betty  about  her  business 
without  delay.  She  went  out  a  second  time  with 
much  greater  alacrity  than  before ;  when  the  lady 
began  immethatelv  to  accuse  herself  of  want  of  reso- 
lution,  and  to  apprehend  the  return  of  her  affection, 
with  its  pernicious  consequences  ;  she  therefore  applied 
hei-self  again  to  the  bell,  and  resummoned  Mrs. 
Slipslop  into  her  presence  ;  who  again  returned,  and 
was  told  by  her  mistress  that  she  had  considered 
better  of  the  matter,  and  was  absolutely  resolved  to 
turn  away  Joseph ;  which  she  ordered  her  to  do 
immediately.  Slipslop,  who  knew  the  violence  of 
her  lady's  temper,  and  would  not  venture  her  place 
for  any  Adonis  or  Hercules  in  the  universe,  left  her 
a  third  time ;  which  she  had  no  sooner  done,  than 
the  little  god  Cupid,  fearing  he  had  not  yet  done  the 
lady's  business,  took  a  fresh  arrow  with  the  sharpest 
point  out  of  his  quiver,  and  shot  it  directly  into  her 
heart ;  in  other  and  plainer  language,  the  lady's  pas- 
sion got  the  better  of  her  reason.  She  called  back 
[32] 


A    SATIRE    ON    LOVE 

Slipslop  once  more,  and  told  her  she  had  resolved  to 
see  the  bov,  and  examine  him  herself;  therefore  bid 
her  send  him  up.  This  wavering  in  her  mistress's 
temper  probably  put  something  into  the  waiting- 
gentlewoman's  liead  not  necessary  to  mention  to  the 
sagacious  reader. 

Ladv  Booby  was  going  to  call  her  back  again,  but 
could  not  prevail  witli  herself.  The  next  considera- 
tion therefore  was,  how  she  should  behave  to  Joseph 
when  he  came  in.  She  resolved  to  preserve  all  the 
dignity  of  the  woman  of  fashion  to  her  servant,  and 
to  indulge  herself  in  this  last  view  of  Joseph  (for 
that  she  was  most  certainly  resolved  it  should  be)  at 
his  own  expense,  by  fii^st  insulting  and  then  discard- 
ing him. 

O  Love,  what  monstrous  tricks  dost  thou  play 
with  thy  votaries  of  both  sexes  !  How  dost  thou 
deceive  them,  and  make  them  deceive  themselves ! 
Their  follies  are  thy  delight!  Their  sighs  make 
thee  laugh,  and  their  pangs  are  thy  merriment ! 

Not  the  gi-eat  Rich,  who  turns  men  into  monkeys, 

wheel-barrows,  and  whatever  else  best  humours  his 

fancy,  hath  so  strangely  metamorphosed  the  human 

shape;   nor   the   great    Gibber,    wlio   confounds   all 

number,  gender,  and  breaks  through  evei-y  rule  of 

granunar  at  his  will,  hath  so  distorted  the  Englisli 

language  as  thou  doth  metamorphose  and  distort  the 

human  senses. 

[33] 
Vol.  1  3 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Thou  puttest  out  our  eyes,  stoppest  up  our  ears, 
and  takest  away  the  power  of  our  nostrils  ;  so  that 
we  can  neither  see  the  largest  object,  hear  the  loudest 
noise,  nor  smell  the  most  poignant  perfume.  Again, 
when  thou  pleasest,  thou  canst  make  a  molehill 
appear  as  a  mountain,  a  Jew's-harp  sound  like  a 
trumpet,  and  a  daisy  smell  like  a  violet.  Thou 
canst  make  cowardice  brave,  avarice  generous,  pride 
humble,  and  cruelty  tender-hearted.  In  short,  thou 
turnest  the  heart  of  man  inside  out,  as  a  juggler 
doth  a  petticoat,  and  bringest  whatsoever  pleaseth 
thee  out  from  it.  If  there  be  any  one  who  doubts 
all  this,  let  him  read  the  next  chapter. 


[34] 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

IN  WHICH,  AFTER  SOME  \'ERy  FINE  WRITING,  THE 
HISTORY  GOES  ON,  AND  RELATES  THE  INTERVIEW 
BETX^'EEN  THE  LADY  AND  JOSEPH  ;  WHERE  THE 
LATTER  HATH  SET  AN  EXAMPLE  WHICH  WE  DE- 
SPAIR OF  SEEING  FOLLOWED  BY  HIS  SEX  IN  THIS 
VICIOUS    AGE. 

N^OW  the  rake  Hesperus   had   called  for 
his   breeches,  and,  having  well  rubbed 
his  drowsy  eyes,  prepared  to  dress  him- 
—  self  for  all  night ;  by  whose  example  his 

brother  rakes  on  earth  likewise  leave  those  beds  in 
which  they  had  slept  away  the  day.  Now  Thetis, 
the  good  housewife,  began  to  put  on  the  pot,  in 
order  to  regale  the  good  man  Phoebus  after  his 
daily  labours  were  over.  In  vulgar  language,  it  was 
in  the  evening  when  Joseph  attended  his  lady's 
orders. 

But  as  it  becomes  us  to  preserve  the  character  of 
this  lady,  who  is  the  heroine  of  our  tale ;  and  as  we 
have  naturally  a  wonderful  tenderness  for  that  beau- 
tiful part  of  the  human  species  called  the  fair  sex ; 
before  we  discover  too  much  of  her  frailty  to  our 
[35] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

reader,  it  will  be  proper  to  give  him  a  lively  idea  of 
the  vast  temptation,  which  overcame  all  the  efforts 
of  a  modest  and  virtuous  mind ;  and  then  we  humbly 
hope  his  good  nature  will  rather  pity  than  condemn 
the  imperfection  of  human  virtue. 

Nay,  the  ladies  themselves  will,  we  hope,  be  in- 
duced, by  considering  the  uncommon  variety  of 
channs  which  united  in  this  young  man's  person,  to 
bridle  their  rampant  passion  for  chastity,  and  be  at 
least  as  mild  as  their  violent  modesty  and  virtue  will 
permit  them,  in  censuring  the  conduct  of  a  woman 
who,  perhaps,  was  in  her  own  disposition  as  chaste 
as  those  pure  and  sanctified  virgins  who,  after  a  life 
innocently  spent  in  the  gaieties  of  the  town,  begin 
about  fifty  to  attend  twice  per  dkm  at  the  polite 
churches  and  chapels,  to  return  thanks  for  the  grace 
which  preserved  them  formerly  amongst  beaus  from 
temptations  perhaps  less  powerful  than  what  now 
attacked  the  Lady  Booby. 

Mr.  Joseph  Andrews  was  now  in  the  one-and- 
twentieth  year  of  his  age.  He  was  of  the  highest 
degree  of  middle  stature ;  his  limbs  were  put  together 
with  great  elegance,  and  no  less  strength ;  his  legs 
and  thighs  were  formed  in  the  exactest  proportion ; 
his  shoulders  were  broad  and  brawny,  but  yet  his 
arm  hung  so  easily,  that  he  had  all  the  symptoms 
of  strength  without  the  least  clumsiness.  His  hair 
was  of  a  nut-brown  colour,  and  was  displayed  in 
[36] 


A    FALSE    ACCUSATION 

wanton  ringlets  clown  hh  back ;  his  forehead  was 
high,  his  eyes  dark,  and  as  full  of  sweetness  as  of  fire  ; 
his  nose  a  little  inclined  to  the  Roman ;  his  teeth 
white  and  even  ;  his  lips  full,  red,  and  soft ;  his  beard 
was  only  rough  on  his  chin  and  upper  lip ;  but  his 
cheeks,  in  which  his  blood  glowed,  were  overspread 
with  a  thick  down  ;  his  countenance  had  a  tenderness 
joined  with  a  sensibility  inexpressible.  Add  to  this 
the  most  perfect  neatness  in  his  dress,  and  an  air 
which,  to  those  who  have  not  seen  many  noblemen, 
would  give  an  idea  of  nobility. 

Such  was  the  person  who  now  appeared  before  the 
lady.  She  viewed  him  some  time  in  silence,  and 
twice  or  thrice  before  she  spake  changed  her  mind  as 
to  the  manner  in  which  she  should  begin.  At  length 
she  said  to  him,  "  Joseph,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  such 
complaints  against  you  :  I  am  told  you  behave  so 
rudely  to  the  maids,  that  they  cannot  do  their  busi- 
ness in  quiet;  I  mean  those  who  are  not  wicked 
enough  to  hearken  to  your  solicitations.  As  to 
others,  they  may,  perhaps,  not  call  you  rude ;  for 
there  are  wicked  shits  who  make  one  ashamed  of 
one"'s  own  sex,  and  are  as  ready  to  admit  any  nau- 
seous familiarity  as  fellows  to  offer  it :  nay,  there 
are  such  in  my  family,  but  they  shall  not  stay  in 
it ;  that  impudent  trollop  who  is  with  child  by  you 
is  discharged  by  this  time."' 

As  a  person  who  is  struck  through  the  heart  with 
[37] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

a  thunderbolt  looks  extremely   surprised,  nay,  and 

perhaps  is  so  too thus  the  poor  Joseph  received 

the  false  accusation  of  his  mistress ;  he  blushed  and 
looked  confounded,  which  she  misinterpreted  to  be 
symptoms  of  his  guilt,  and  thus  went  on  :  — 

"  Come  hither,  Joseph :  another  mistress  might 
discard  you  for  these  offences ;  but  I  have  a  compas- 
sion for  your  youth,  and  if  I  could  be  certain  you 
would  be  no  more  guilty  —  Consider,  child,"  laying 
her  hand  carelessly  upon  his,  "you  are  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  and  might  do  better  ;  you  might  make 
your  fortune."  "  Madam,"  said  Joseph,  "  I  do  assure 
your  ladyship  I  don't  know  whether  any  maid  in 
the  house  is  man  or  woman."  "  Oh  fie !  Joseph," 
answered  the  lady,  "  don't  commit  another  crime  in 
denying  the  truth.  I  could  pardon  the  first ;  but 
I  hate  a  lyar."  "Madam,"  cries  Joseph,  "I  hope 
your  ladyship  will  not  be  offended  at  my  asserting 
my  innocence ;  for,  by  all  that  is  sacred,  I  have 
•never  offered  more  than  kissing."  "  Kissing  ! "  said 
the  lady,  with  great  discomposure  of  countenance, 
and  more  redness  in  her  cheeks  than  anger  in  her 
eyes ;  "  do  you  call  that  no  crime  ?  Kissing,  Joseph, 
is  as  a  prologue  to  a  play.  Can  I  believe  a  young 
fellow  of  your  age  and  complexion  will  be  content 
with  kissing?  No,  Joseph,  there  is  no  woman  who 
grants  that  but  will  gi'ant  more ;  and  I  am  deceived 
greatly  in  you  if  you  would  not  put  her  closely  to  it. 
[38] 


A    TEMPTATION 

What  would  you  think,  Joseph,  if  I  admitted  you  to 
kiss  me  ?  "  Joseph  replied  he  would  sooner  die  than 
have  any  such  tliought.  "  And  yet,  Joseph,""  re- 
turned she,  "ladies  have  admitted  their  footmen  to 
such  familiarities ;  and  footmen,  I  confess  to  you, 
much  less  deserving  them  ;  fellows  without  half  your 
charms  —  for  such  might  almost  excuse  the  crime. 
Tell  me  therefore,  Joseph,  if  I  should  admit  you  to 
such  freedom,  what  would  you  think  of  me  ?  —  tell 
me  freely."  "  Madam,"  said  Joseph, "  I  should  think 
your  ladyship  condescended  a  great  deal  below  your- 
self." "  Pugh  !  "  said  she  ;  "  that  I  am  to  answer  to 
myself:  but  would  not  you  insist  on  more?  Would 
you  be  contented  with  a  kiss  ?  Would  not  your  in- 
clinations be  all  on  fire  rather  by  such  a  favour  ?  " 
"  Madam,"  said  Joseph,  "  if  they  were,  I  hope  I 
should  be  able  to  controul  them,  without  suffering 
them  to  get  the  better  of  my  virtue."  You  have 
heard,  reader,  poets  talk  of  the  statue  of  Surprize; 
you  have  heard  likewise,  or  else  you  have  heard  very 
little,  how  Surprize  made  one  of  the  sons  of  Croesus 
speak,  though  he  was  dumb.  You  have  seen  the  faces, 
in  the  eighteen-penny  gallery,  when,  through  the  trap- 
door, to  soft  or  no  music,  Mr.  Bridgewater,  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Mills,  or  some  other  of  ghostly  appearance,  hath 
ascended,  with  a  face  all  pale  with  powder,  and  a 
shirt  all  bloody  with  ribbons ;  —  but  from  none  of 
these,  nor  fi-om  Phidias  or  Praxiteles,  if  they  should 
[39] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

return  to  life  —  no,  not  from  the  inimitable  pencil  of 
my  friend  Hogarth,  could  you  receive  such  an  idea  of 
surprize  as  would  have  entered  in  at  your  eyes  had 
they  beheld  the  Lady  Booby  when  those  last  woi-ds 
issued  out  from  the  lips  of  Joseph.  "  Your  virtue ! " 
said  the  lady,  recovering  after  a  silence  of  two 
minutes  ;  "  I  shall  never  survive  it.  Your  virtue  !  — 
intolerable  confidence !  Have  3'ou  the  assurance  to 
pretend,  that  when  a  lady  demeans  herself  to  throw 
aside  the  rules  of  decency,  in  order  to  honour  you 
with  the  highest  favour  in  her  power,  your  virtue 
should  resist  her  inclination?  that,  when  she  had 
conquered  her  own  virtue,  she  should  find  an  obstruc- 
tion in  yours.?""  "Madam,"  said  Joseph,  "I  can't 
see  why  her  having  no  virtue  should  be  a  reason 
against  my  having  any  ;  or  why,  because  I  am  a  man, 
or  because  I  am  poor,  my  virtue  must  be  subservient 
to  her  pleasures.''  "  I  am  out  of  patience,"  cries  the 
lady  :  "  did  ever  mortal  hear  of  a  man's  virtue  ? 
Did  ever  the  greatest  or  the  gravest  men  pretend  to 
any  of  this  kind.?  Will  magistrates  who  punish 
lewdness,  or  parsons  who  preach  against  it,  make  any 
scruple  of  committing  it  ?  And  can  a  boy,  a  strip- 
ling, have  the  confidence  to  talk  of  his  virtue  ? " 
"  Madam,"  says  Joseph,  "  that  boy  is  the  brother  of 
Pamela,  and  would  be  ashamed  that  the  chastity  of 
his  family,  which  is  preserved  in  her,  should  be 
stained  in  him.  If  there  ai*e  such  men  as  your  lady- 
[40] 


JOSEPH'S    DISMISSAL 

ship  mentions,  I  am  sorry  for  it ;  and  I  wish  they 
had  an  opportunity  of  reading  over  those  letters 
which  ray  father  hath  sent  me  of  my  sister  Pamela's ; 
nor  do  I  doubt  but  such  an  example  would  amend 
them.'" ,  "  You  impudent  villain  ! ""  cries  the  lady  in 
a  rage ;  "  do  you  insult  me  with  the  follies  of  my 
relation,  who  hath  exposed  himself  all  over  the 
country  upon  your  sister"'s  account  ?  a  little  vixen, 
whom  I  have  always  wondered  my  late  Lady  Booby 
ever  kept  in  her  house.  Sirrah !  get  out  of  my  sight, 
and  prepare  to  set  out  this  night ;  for  I  will  order 
you  your  wages  immediately,  and  you  shall  be  stripped 
and  turned  away.""  "  Madam,""  says  Joseph,  "  I  am 
sorry  I  have  offended  your  ladyship,  I  am  sure  I  never 
intended  it.""  "Yes,  siiTah,"""*  cries  she,  "you  have 
had  the  vanity  to  misconstrue  the  little  innocent  free- 
dom I  took,  in  order  to  try  whether  what  I  had  heard 
was  true.  O'  ray  conscience,  you  have  had  the 
assurance  to  imagine  I  was  fond  of  you  myself." 
Joseph  answered,  he  had  only  spoke  out  of  tender- 
ness for  his  virtue ;  at  which  words  she  flew  into  a 
violent  passion,  and  refusing  to  hear  more,  ordered 
him  instantly  to  leave  the  room. 

He  was  no  sooner  gone  than  she  burst  forth  into 
the  following  exclamation  :  —  "  \\nKither  doth  this 
violent  passion  hurry  us  ?  What  meannesses  do  we 
submit  to  from  its  impulse!  Wisely  we  resist  its 
first  and  least  approaches;  for  it  is  then  only  we 
[41] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

can  assure  ourselves  the  victory.  No  woman  could 
ever  safely  say,  so  far  only  will  I  go.  Have  I  not 
exposed  myself  to  the  refusal  of  my  footman  ?  I 
cannot  bear  the  reflection."  Upon  which  she  ap- 
plied herself  to  the  bell,  and  rung  it  with  infinite 
more  violence  than  was  necessary  —  the  faithfiil 
Slipslop  attending  near  at  hand :  to  say  the  truth, 
she  had  conceived  a  suspicion  at  her  last  interview 
with  her  mistress,  and  had  waited  ever  since  in  the 
antechamber,  having  carefully  applied  her  ears  to 
the  keyhole  during  the  whole  time  that  the  preced- 
ing conversation  passed  between  Joseph  and  the 
lady. 


[42] 


CHAPTER    NINE 

WHAT  PASSED  BETWEEN  THE  LADY  AKD  MRS.  SLIPSLOP ; 
IN  WHICH  WE  PROPHESY  THERE  ARE  SOME  STROKES 
WHICH  EVERY  ONE  WILL  NOT  TRULY  COMPREHEND 
AT  THE   FIRST   READING. 

SLIPSLOP,"  said  the  lady,  "  I  find  too  much 
reason  to  believe  all  thou  hast  told  me  of 
this  wicked  Joseph ;  I  have  determined  to 
part  with  him  instantly  ;  so  go  you  to  the 
steward,  and  bid  him  pay  his  wages."  Slipslop,  who 
had  preserved  hitherto  a  distance  to  her  lady  — 
rather  out  of  necessity  than  inclination  —  and  who 
thought  the  knowledge  of  this  secret  had  thrown 
down  all  distinction  between  them,  answered  her 
mistress  very  pertly  — "  She  wished  she  knew  her 
own  mind  ;  and  that  she  was  cei'tain  she  would  call  her 
back  again  before  she  was  got  half-way  downstairs."" 
The  lady  replied,  she  had  taken  a  resolution,  and 
was  resolved  to  keep  it.  "  I  am  sorry  for  it,"  cries 
Slipslop,  "and,  if  I  had  known  you  would  have 
punished  the  poor  lad  so  severely,  you  should  never 
have  heard  a  particle  of  the  matter.  Here's  a  fuss 
indeed  about  nothing ! "  "  Nothing ! ''  returned  my 
[43] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

lady;  "do  vou  think  I  will  countenance  leudness  in 
my  house  ?  "  "  If  you  will  turn  away  every  footman,'' 
^said  Slipslop,  "  that  is  a  lover  of  the  sport,  you  must 
soon  open  the  coach  door  yourself,  or  get  a.  set  of 
mophrodites  to  wait  upon  you  ;  and  I  am  sure  I 
hated  the  sight  of  them  even  singing  in  an  opera."" 
"  Do  as  I  bid  you,""  says  my  lady,  "  and  don't  shock 
my  ears  with  your  beastly  language."  "  Marry- 
come-up,"  cries  Slipslop,  "  people's  ears  are  some- 
times the  nicest  part  about  them." 

The  ladv,  who  began  to  adnn're  the  new  style  in 
which  her  waiting-gentlewoman  delivered  herself,  and 
by  the  conclusion  of  her  speech  suspected  somewhat  of 
the  truth,  called  her  back,  and  desired  to  know  what 
she  meant  by  the  extraordinary  degree  of  freedom  in 
which  she  thought  proper  to  indulge  her  tongue. 
"  Freedom  ! ""  says   Slipslop ;  "  I   don't   know   what 
you  call  freedom,  madam  ;  servants  have  tongues  as 
well  as  their  mistresses."     "  Yes,  and  saucy  ones  too," 
answered  the  lady ;  "  but  I  assure  you  I  shall  bear 
no   such    impertinence."      "  Impertinence !    I   don't 
know  that  I  am  impertinent,"  says  Slipslop.     "  Yes, 
indeed  you  are,"  cries  my  lady,  "  and,   unless  you 
mend  your  manners,  this  house  is  no  place  for  you." 
"  Manners  ! "  cries  Slipslop  ;  "  I  never  was  thought 
to  want  manners  nor  modesty  neither ;  and  for  places, 
there  arc  more  places  than  one  ;  and  I  know  what  I 
know."     "  \Vliat  do  you  know,  mistress.''"  answered 
-      [44] 


MISTRESS    AND    MAID 

the  lady.  **  I  am  not  obliged  to  tell  that  to  every- 
body," says  Slipslop,  "  any  more  than  I  am  obliged 
to  keep  it  a  secret.""  "  I  desire  you  would  provide 
yourself,"  answered  the  lady.  "  With  all  my  heart," 
replied  the  waiting-gentlewoman  ;  and  so  departed 
in  a  passion,  and  slapped  the  door  after  her. 

The  lady  too  plainly  perceived  that  her  waiting- 
gentlewoman  knew  more  than  she  would  willingly 
have  had  her  acquainted  %\ath ;  and  this  she  imputed 
to  Joseph'^s  having  discovered  to  her  what  passed  at 
the  first  interview.  This,  therefore,  blew  up  her 
rage  against  him,  and  confirmed  her  in  a  resolution 
of  parting  with  him. 

But  the  dismissing  Mrs.  Slipslop  was  a  point  not 
so  easily  to  be  resolved  upon.  She  had  the  utmost 
tenderness  for  her  reputation,  as  she  knew  on  that 
depended  many  of  the  most  valuable  blessings  of 
life ;  particularly  cards,  making  curtsies  in  public 
places,  and,  above  all,  the  pleasure  of  demolishing 
the  reputations  of  others,  in  which  innocent  amuse- 
ment she  had  an  extraordinary  delight.  She  there- 
fore detennined  to  submit  to  any  insult  from  a 
servant,  rather  than  run  a  risque  of  losing  the  title 
to  so  many  great  privileges. 

She  therefore  sent  for  her  steward,  Mr.  Peter 
Pounce,  and  ordered  him  to  pay  Joseph  his  wages, 
to  strip  off  his  liver}',  and  to  turn  him  out  of  the 
house  that  evening. 

[45] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

She  then  called  Slipslop  up,  and,  after  refreshing 
her  spirits  with  a  small  cordial,  which  she  kept  in 
her  closet,  she  began  in  the  following  manner  :  — 

"  Slipslop,  why  will  you,  who  know  my  passionate 
temper,  attempt  to  provoke  me  by  your  answers  ?  I 
am  convinced  you  are  an  honest  servant,  and  should  be 
very  unwilling  to  part  with  you.  I  believe,  likewise, 
you  have  found  me  an  indulgent  mistress  on  many 
occasions,  and  have  as  little  reason  on  your  side  to 
desire  a  change.  I  can't  help  being  surprized,  there- 
fore, that  you  will  take  the  surest  method  to  offend 
me  —  I  mean,  repeating  my  words,  which  you  know 
I  have  always  detested." 

The  prudent  waiting-gentlewoman  had  duly 
weighed  the  whole  matter,  and  found,  on  mature 
deliberation,  that  a  good  place  in  possession  was 
better  than  one  in  expectation.  As  she  found  her 
mistress,  therefore,  inclined  to  relent,  she  thought 
proper  also  to  put  on  some  small  condescension, 
which  was  as  readily  accepted ;  and  so  the  affair 
was  reconciled,  all  offences  forgiven,  and  a  present 
of  a  gown  and  petticoat  made  her,  as  an  instance 
of  her  lady"'s  future  favour. 

She  offered  once  or  twice  to  speak  in  favour  of 
Joseph  ;  but  found  her  lady''s  heart  so  obdurate,  that 
she  prudently  dropt  all  such  efforts.  She  considered 
there  w^ere  more  footmen  in  the  house,  and  some 
as  stout  fellows,  though  not  quite  so  handsome,  as 
[46] 


LADY    BOOBY'S    PERPLEXITY 

Joseph ;  besides,  the  reader  hath  ah'eady  seen  her 
tender  advances  had  not  met  with  the  encourage- 
ment she  might  have  reasonably  expected.  She 
thought  she  had  thrown  away  a  great  deal  of  sack 
and  sweetmeats  on  an  ungrateful  rascal ;  and,  being 
a  little  inclined  to  the  opinion  of  that  female  sect, 
who  hold  one  lusty  young  fellow  to  be  nearly  as  good 
as  another  lusty  young  fellow,  she  at  last  gave  up 
Joseph  and  his  cause,  and,  with  a  triumph  over  her 
passion  highly  commendable,  walked  off  with  her 
present,  and  with  great  tranquillity  paid  a  visit  to  a 
stone-bottle,  which  is  of  sovereign  use  to  a  philoso- 
phical temper. 

She  left  not  her  mistress  so  easy.  The  poor  lady 
could  not  reflect  without  agony  that  her  dear  repu- 
tation was  in  the  power  of  her  servants.  All  her 
comfort  as  to  Joseph  was,  that  she  hoped  he  did  not 
undei'stand  her  meaning ;  at  least  she  could  say  for 
herself,  she  had  not  plainly  expressed  anything  to 
him  ;  and  as  to  Mrs.  Slipslop,  she  imagined  she 
could  bribe  her  to  secrecy. 

But  what  hurt  her  most  was,  that  in  reality  she 
had  not  so  entirely  conquered  her  passion  ;  the  little 
god  lay  lurking  in  her  heart,  though  anger  and  dis-  i 
dain  so  hoodAvinked  her,  that  she  could  not  see  him. 
She  was  a  thousand  times  on  the  very  brink  of 
revoking  the  sentence  she  had  passed  against  the 
poor  youth.  Love  became  his  advocate,  and  whis-  U// 
[47] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

pered  nianv  things  in  his  favour.  Honour  Hkewise 
endeavoured  to  vindicate  his  crime,  and  Pity  to  miti- 
gate his  punishment.  On  the  other  side,  Pride  and 
Ilevenge  spoke  as  loudly  against  him.  And  thus 
the  poor  lady  was  tortured  with  perplexity,  opposite 
passions  distracting  and  tearing  her  mind  different 
ways. 

So  have  I  seen,  in  the  hall  of  Westminster,  where 
Sei'jeant  Bramble  hath  been  retained  on  the  right 
side,  and  Serjeant  Puzzle  on  the  left,  the  balance  of 
opinion  (  so  equal  were  their  fees  )  alternately  incline 
to  either  scale.  Now  Bramble  throws  in  an  argument, 
and  Puzzle's  scale  strikes  the  beam  ;  again  Bramble 
shares  the  like  fate,  overpowered  by  the  weight  of 
Puzzle.  Here  Bramble  hits,  there  Puzzle  strikes; 
here  one  has  you,  there  V  other  has  you  ;  till  at  last 
all  becomes  one  scene  of  confusion  in  the  tortured 
minds  of  the  hearers ;  equal  wages  are  laid  on  the 
success,  and  neither  judge  nor  jury  can  possibly  make 
anything  of  the  matter ;  all  things  are  so  enveloped 
by  the  careful  Serjeants  in  doubt  and  obscurity. 

Or,  as  it  happens  in  the  conscience,  where  honour 
and  honesty  pull  one  way,  and  a  bribe  and  necessity 

another, If  it  was   our   present   business   only 

to  make  similes,  we  could  produce  many  more  to 
this  purpose ;  but  a  simile  (  as  well  as  a  word  )  to  the 
wise.  —  We  shall  therefore  see  a  little  after  our  hero, 
for  whom  the  reader  is  doubtless  in  some  pain. 


CHAPTER    TEN 

JOSEPH  WRITES  AXOTHER  LETrER  :  HIS  TRANSACTIONS 
WITH  .AIR.  PETER  POUNCE,  &C.,  WITH  HIS  DEPARTtTRE 
FROM  LADY  BOOBY. 

THE  disconsolate  Joseph  would  not  have 
had  an  understanding  sufficient  for  the 
principal  subject  of  such  a  book  as  this, 
if  he  had  any  longer  misunderstood  the 
drift  of  his  mistress ;  and  indeed,  that  he  did  not 
discern  it  sooner,  the  reader  will  be  pleased  to  impute 
to  an  unwillingness  in  him  to  discover  what  he  must 
condemn  in  her  as  a  fault.  Having  therefore  quitted 
her  presence,  he  retired  into  his  own  gan-et,  and 
entered  liimself  into  an  ejaculation  on  the  number- 
less calamities  which  attended  beauty,  and  the  mis- 
fortune it  was  to  be  handsomer  than  one's  neighbours. 
He  then  sat  down,  and  addressed  himself  to  his 
sister  Pamela  in  the  following  words :  — 

"Dear  Sistcti  Pamela.  —  llopinc^  you  arc  well, 
what  news  have  I  to  tell  you  !  O  Pamela  !  my  mistress 
is  fallen  in  love  with  me — that  is,  what  gre-at  folks 
call  falling  in  love  —  she  has  a  mind  to  ruin  rac  ;  but  I 
hope  I  shall  have  more  resolution  and  more  ^racc  than 
to  part  with  mv  virtue  to  anv  lad}'^  upon  earth. 

[49] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

"  Mr.  Adams  hath  often  told  me,  that  chastity  is  as 
great  a  virtue  in  a  man  as  in  a  woman.  He  says  he 
never  knew  any  more  than  his  wife,  and  I  shall  endeav- 
our to  follow  his  example.  Indeed,  it  is  owing  entirely 
to  his  excellent  sermons  and  advice,  together  with  your 
letters,  that  I  have  been  able  to  resist  a  temptation, 
which,  he  says,  no  man  complies  with,  but  he  repents 
in  this  world,  or  is  damned  for  it  in  the  next ;  and  why 
should  I  trust  to  repentance  on  my  deathbed,  since  I 
may  die  in  my  sleep.''  What  fine  things  are  good 
advice  and  good  examples  !  But  I  am  glad  she  turned 
me  out  of  the  chamber  as  she  did  :  for  I  had  once 
almost  forgotten  every  word  parson  Adams  had  ever 
said  to  me. 

"  I  don't  doubt,  dear  sister,  but  j-ou  will  have  grace 
to  preserve  your  virtue  against  all  trials  ;  and  I  beg  you 
earnestly  to  pray  I  may  be  enabled  to  preserve  mine ; 
for  truly  it  is  very  severely  attacked  by  more  than  one ; 
but  I  hope  I  shall  copy  your  example,  and  that  of 
Joseph  my  namesake,  and  maintain  my  virtue  against 
all  temptations." 

Joseph  had  not  finished  his  letter,  when  he  was 
summoned  downstairs  by  Mr.  Peter  Pounce,  to 
receive  his  wages ;  for,  besides  that  out  of  eight 
pounds  a  year  he  allowed  his  father  and  mother  four, 
he  had  been  obliged,  in  order  to  furnish  himself 
with  musical  instruments,  to  apply  to  the  generosity 
of  the  aforesaid  Peter,  who,  on  urgent  occasions, 
used  to  advance  the  servants  their  wages  :  not  before 
they  were  due,  but  before  they  were  payable ;  that 
[50] 


JOSEPH'S    DEPARTURE 

is,  perhaps,  half  a  year  after  they  were  due ;  and  this 
at  the  moderate  premium  of  fifty  per  cent,  or  a 
little  more  :  by  Avhich  charitable  methods,  together 
with  lending  money  to  other  people,  and  even  to  his 
own  master  and  mistress,  the  honest  man  had,  from 
nothing,  in  a  few  years  amassed  a  small  sum  of 
twenty  thousand  pounds  or  thereabouts. 

Joseph  having  received  his  little  remainder  of 
wages,  and  having  stript  off  his  livery,  was  forced  to 
borrow  a  frock  and  breeches  of  one  of  the  servants 
(  for  he  was  so  beloved  in  the  family,  that  they  would 
all  have  lent  him  anything )  :  and,  being  told  by 
Peter  that  he  must  not  stay  a  moment  longer  in  the 
house  than  was  necessary  to  pack  up  his  linen,  which 
he  easily  did  in  a  very  narrow  compass,  he  took  a 
melancholy  leave  of  his  fellow-servants,  and  set  out 
at  seven  in  the  evening. 

He  had  proceeded  the  length  of  two  or  three 
streets,  before  he  absolutely  determined  with  him- 
self whether  he  should  leave  the  town  that  night,  or, 
procuring  a  lodging,  wait  till  the  morning.  At  last, 
the  moon  shining  very  bright  helped  him  to  come  to 
a  resolution  of  beginning  his  journey  immediately, 
to  which  likewise  he  had  some  other  inducements ; 
which  the  reader,  without  being  a  conjurer,  cannot 
possibly  guess,  till  we  have  given  him  those  hints 
which  it  may  be  now  proper  to  open. 

[61] 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

OF  SEVERAL  NEW  JIATTERS  NOT  EXPECTED. 

T  is  an  observation  sometimes  made,  that  to 
indicate  our  idea  of  a  simple  fellow,  we  say, 
he  is  easily  to  be  seen  through  :  nor  do  I 
believe  it  a  more  improper  denotation  of  a 
simple  book.  InvStead  of  applying  this  to  any  par- 
ticular performance,  we  chuse  rather  to  remark  the 
contrary  in  this  history-,  where  the  scene  opens  itself 
by  small  degrees  ;  and  he  is  a  sagacious  reader  who 
can  see  two  chapters  before  him. 

For  this  reason,  we  have  not  hitherto  hinted  a 
matter  which  now  seems  necessary  to  be  explained ; 
since  it  may  be  wondered  at,  first,  that  Joseph  made 
such  extraordinary  haste  out  of  town,  which  hath 
been  already  shewn ;  and  secondly,  which  will  be 
now  shewn,  that,  instead  of  proceeding  to  the  habi- 
tation of  his  father  and  mother,  or  to  his  beloved 
sister  Pamela,  he  chose  rather  to  set  out  full  speed 
tf>  the  Lady  Booby's  country-seat,  which  he  had  left 
on  his  journey  to  Loudon. 

Be  it  known,  then,  that  iu  the  same  parish  where 
this  seat  stood  there  lived  a  young  girl  whom  Joseph 
[52  J 


JOSEPH    AND    FANNY 

( though  the  best  of  sons  and  brothers)  longed  more 
impatiently  to  see  than  his  parents  or  his  sister. 
She  was  a  poor  girl,  who  had  formerly  been  bred  up 
in  Sir  John's  family  ;  whence,  a  little  before  the 
journey  to  London,  she  had  been  discarded  by  jNIrs. 
Slipslop,  on  account  of  her  extraordinary  beauty: 
for  I  never  could  find  any  other  reason. 

This  young  creature  (who  now  lived  with  a  former 
in  the  pansh)  had  Ix^cn  always  beloved  by  Joseph, 
and  returned  his  affection.  She  was  two  years  only 
younger  than  our  hero.  They  had  been  acquainted 
from  their  infancy,  and  had  conceived  a  very  early 
liking  for  each  other ;  which  had  grown  to  such  a 
degree  of  affection,  that  Mr.  Adams  had  with  much 
ado  prevented  them  from  marrying,  and  persuaded 
them  to  wait  till  a  few  years'  service  and  thrift  had  a 
little  improved  their  experience,  and  enabled  them 
to  live  comfortably  together. 

They  followed  this  good  man's  advice,  as  indeed 
his  word  was  little  less  than  a  law  in  his  parish  ;  for 
as  he  had  shown  his  parishioners,  by  an  uniform 
behaviour  of  thirty-five  years''  duration,  that  he  had 
their  good  entirely  at  heart,  so  they  consulted  him 
on  every  occasion,  and  very  seldom  acted  contrary 
to  his  opinion. 

Nothing  can  be  imagined  more  tender  than  was 
the  parting  between  these  t^vo  Icncrs.  A  thousand 
sighs  hea\cd  tlie  boson)  of  Joseph,  a  thousand  tears 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

distilled  from  the  lovely  eyes  of  Fanny  (for  that  was 
her  name).  Though  her  modesty  M-ould  only  suffer 
her  to  admit  his  eager  kisses,  her  violent  love  made 
her  more  than  passive  in  his  embraces  ;  and  she  often 
pulled  him  to  her  breast  with  a  soft  pressure,  which 
though  perhaps  it  would  not  have  squeezed  an  insect 
to  death,  caused  more  emotion  in  the  heart  of  Joseph 
than  the  closest  Cornish  hug  could  have  done. 

The  reader  may  perhaps  wonder  that  so  fond  a 
pair  should,  during  a  twelvemonth's  absence,  never 
converse  with  one  another :  indeed,  there  was  but 
one  reason  which  did  or  could  have  prevented  them  ; 
and  this  was,  that  poor  Fanny  could  neither  write 
nor  read :  nor  could  she  be  prevailed  upon  to  trans- 
mit the  delicacies  of  her  tender  and  chaste  passion 
by  the  hands  of  an  amanuensis. 

They  contented  themselves  therefore  with  frequent 
inquiries  after  each  other's  health,  with  a  mutual 
confidence  in  each  other's  fidelity,  and  the  prospect 
of  their  future  happiness. 

Having  explained  these  matters  to  oiu'  reader,  and, 
as  far  as  possible,  satisfied  all  his  doubts,  we  return 
to  honest  Joseph,  whom  we  left  just  set  out  on  his 
travels  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

Those   who  have   read   any   romance  or  poetry, 
antient  or  modern,   must  have  been  informed  that 
love  hath  wings :  by  which  they  are  not  to  under- 
stand, as  some  young  ladies  by  mistake  have  done, 
[54J 


A    FAMOUS    INN 

that  a  lover  can  fly ;  the  writers,  by  this  ingenious 
allegory,  intending  to  insinuate  no  more  than  that 
lovers  do  not  march  like  horse-guards  ;  in  short,  that 
they  put  the  best  leg  foremost ;  which  our  lusty 
youth,  who  could  walk  with  any  man,  did  so  heartily 
on  this  occasion,  that  within  four  hours  he  reached 
a  famous  house  of  hospitality  well  known  to  the 
western  traveller.  It  presents  you  a  lion  on  the 
sign-post:  and  the  master,  who  was  christened 
Timotheus,  is  commonly  called  plain  Tim.  Some 
have  conceived  that  he  hath  particularly  chosen  the 
lion  for  his  sign,  as  he  doth  in  countenance  greatly 
resemble  that  magnanimous  beast,  though  his  dis- 
position savours  more  of  the  sweetness  of  the  lamb. 
He  is  a  person  well  received  among  all  sorts  of  men, 
being  qualified  to  render  himself  agi'eeable  to  any  ; 
as  he  is  well  versed  in  history  and  politics,  hath  a 
smattering  in  law  and  divinity,  cracks  a  good  jest, 
and  plays  wonderfully  well  on  the  French  horn. 

A  violent  storm  of  hail  forced  Joseph  to  take 
shelter  in  this  inn,  where  he  remembered  Sir  Thomas 
had  dined  in  his  way  to  town.  Joseph  had  no 
sooner  seated  himself  by  the  kitchen  fire  than 
Timotheus,  observing  his  livery,  began  to  condole 
the  loss  of  his  late  master ;  who  was,  he  said,  his  very 
particular  and  intimate  acquaintance,  with  whom  he 
had  cracked  many  a  merry  bottle,  ay  many  a  dozen, 
in  his  time.  He  then  remarked,  that  all  these 
[55] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

things  were  over  now,  all  passed,  and  just  as  if  thev 
had  never  been ;  and  concluded  with  an  excellent 
observation  on  the  certainty  of  death,  which  his  wife 
said  was  indeed  very  true.  A  fellow  now  arrived  at 
the  same  inn  with  two  horses,  one  of  which  he 
was  leading  farther  down  into  the  country  to  meet 
his  master ;  these  he  put  into  the  stable,  and  came 
and  took  his  place  by  Joseph's  side,  who  immediately 
knew  him  to  be  the  servant  of  a  neighbouring  gentle- 
man, who  used  to  visit  at  their  house. 

This  fellow  was  likewise  forced  in  by  the  storm ; 
for  he  had  orders  to  go  twenty  miles  farther  that 
evening,  and  luckily  on  the  same  road  which  Joseph 
himself  intended  to  take.  He,  therefore,  embraced 
this  opportunity  of  complimenting  his  friend  with 
his  master's  horse  (notwithstanding  he  had  received 
express  commands  to  the  contrary),  which  was 
readily  accepted ;  and  so,  after  they  had  drank  a 
loving  pot,  and  the  storm  was  over,  they  set  out 
together. 


[56J 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 

CONTAINING      MANY      SURPRIZING      AO'ENTURES  WHICH 

JOSEPH      ANDREWS      MET      WITH       ON       THE  ROAD, 

SCARCE     CREDIBLE    TO    THOSE    WHO     HAVE  NEVER 
TRAVELLED    IN    A    STAGE-COACH, 

N^OTHING  remarkable  happened  on  the 
road  till  their  arrival  at  the  inn  to 
which  the  horses  were  ordered  ;  whither 
they  came  about  two  in  the  morning. 
The  moon  then  shone  very  bright ;  and  Joseph,  mak- 
ing his  friend  a  present  of  a  pint  of  wine,  and 
thanking  him  for  the  favour  of  his  horse,  notwith- 
standing all  entreaties  to  the  contrar}',  proceeded  on 
his  journey  on  foot. 

He  had  not  gone  above  two  miles,  charmed  with 
the  hope  of  shortly  seeing  his  beloved  Fanny,  when 
he  was  met  by  two  fellows  in  a  narrow  lane,  and 
ordered  to  stand  and  deliver.  He  readily  gave  them 
all  the  money  he  had,  which  was  somewhat  less  than 
two  pounds ;  and  told  them  he  hoped  they  would 
be  so  generous  as  to  return  him  a  few  shillings,  to 
dej&ay  his  charges  on  his  way  home. 

One  of  the  ruffians  answered  with  an  oath,  "  Yes, 
we  'll  give  you  something  presently  :  but  firet  strip 
[57] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  be  d — n'd  to  you."  —  "  Strip,"  cried  the  other, 
'*  or  I  '11  blow  your  brains  to  the  devil."  Joseph,  re- 
membering that  he  had  borrowed  his  coat  and  breeches 
of  a  friend,  and  that  he  should  be  ashamed  of  mak- 
ing any  excuse  for  not  returning  them,  replied,  he 
hoped  they  would  not  insist  on  his  clothes,  which 
were  not  worth  much,  but  consider  the  coldness  of 
the  night.  "  You  are  cold,  are  you,  you  rascal  ? " 
said  one  of  the  robbers :  "  I  '11  warm  you  with  a 
vengeance  ; "  and,  damning  his  eyes,  snapped  a  pistol 
at  his  head ;  which  he  had  no  sooner  done  than  the 
other  levelled  a  blow  at  him  with  his  stick,  which 
Joseph,  who  was  expert  at  cudgel-playing,  caught 
with  his,  and  returned  the  favour  so  successfully  on  his 
adversary,  that  he  laid  him  sprawling  at  his  feet,  and 
at  the  same  instant  received  a  blow  from  behind, 
with  the  butt  end  of  a  pistol,  from  the  other  villain, 
which  felled  him  to  the  ground,  and  totally  deprived 
him  of  his  senses. 

The  thief  who  had  been  knocked  down  had  now 
recovered  himself;  and  both  together  fell  to  bela- 
bouring poor  Joseph  with  their  sticks,  till  they  were 
convinced  they  had  put  an  end  to  his  miserable 
being :  they  then  stripped  him  entirely  naked,  threw 
him  into  a  ditch,  and  departed  with  their  booty. 

The  poor  wretch,  who  lay  motionless  a  long  time, 
just  began  to  recover  his  senses  as  a  stage-coach 
came  by.  The  postillion,  hearing  a  man's  groans, 
[58] 


JOSEPH    ASKS    FOR    AID 

stopt  his  horses,  and  told  the  coachman  he  was  cer- 
tain there  was  a  dead  man  lying  in  the  ditch,  for  he 
heard  him  groan.  "  Go  on,  sirrah,"  says  the  coach- 
man ;  "  we  are  confounded  late,  and  have  no  time  to 
look  after  dead  men."  A  lady,  who  heard  what  the 
postillion  said,  and  likewise  heard  the  groan,  called 
eagerly  to  the  coacliman  to  stop  and  see  what  was 
the  matter.  Upon  which  he  bid  the  postillion  alight, 
and  look  into  the  ditch.  He  did  so,  and  returned, 
"  that  there  was  a  man  sitting  upright,  as  naked  as 
ever  he  was  horn.'"  —  "  O  J — sus  !  "  cried  the  lady  ; 
*'  a  naked  man  !  Dear  coachman,  drive  on  and  leave 
him."  Upon  this  the  gentlemen  got  out  of  the 
coach  ;  and  Joseph  begged  them  to  have  mercy  upon 
him  :  for  that  he  had  been  robbed  and  almost  beaten 
to  death.  "  Robbed  ! "  cries  an  old  gentleman : 
*'  let  us  make  all  the  haste  imaginable,  or  we  shall 
be  robbed  too."  A  young  man  who  belonged  to  the 
law  answered,  '*  He  wished  they  had  passed  by 
without  taking  any  notice  ;  but  that  now  they  might 
be  proved  to  have  been  last  in  his  company ;  if  he 
should  die  they  might  be  called  to  some  account  for 
his  murder.  He  therefore  thought  it  advisable  to 
save  the  poor  creature'';s  life,  for  their  own  sakes,  if 
possible ;  at  least,  if  he  died,  to  prevent  the  jury's 
finding  that  they  fled  for  it.  He  was  therefore  of 
opinion  to  take  the  man  into  the  coach,  and  carry 
him  to  the  next  inn."  The  lady  insisttni,  "  That  he 
[59] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

.slioukl  nol  come  into  trie  coach.  Tltat.  if  they  lifted 
liim  in,  slie  would  herself  alight :  for  she  liad  rather 
stay  in  that  place  to  all  eternity  than  ride  with  a 
naked  man."  The  coachman  objected,  "  That  he 
could  not  suffer  liim  to  be  taken  in  unless  somebody 
would  pay  a  shilling  for  liis  carriage  the  four  iniles." 
Which  the  two  gentlemen  refused  to  do.  But  the 
lawyer,  who  was  afraid  of  some  mischief  happening 
to  himself,  if  the  wretch  was  left  behind  in  that 
condition,  saying  no  man  could  be  too  cautious  in 
these  mattei-s,  and  that  he  remembered  very  extraor- 
dinary cases  in  the  books,  threatened  the  coachman, 
and  bid  him  deny  taking  him  up  at  his  peril ;  for 
that,  if  he  died,  he  should  be  indicted  for  his  murder  ; 
and  if  he  lived,  and  brought  an  action  against  him, 
he  would  willingly  take  a  brief  in  it.  These  words 
had  a  sensible  effect  on  the  coachman,  who  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  person  who  spoke  them  ;  and 
the  old  gentleman  above  mentioned,  thinking  the 
naked  man  would  afford  him  frequent  opportunities 
of  showing  his  wit  to  the  lady,  offered  to  join  with 
the  company  in  giving  a  nuig  of  beer  for  his  fare ; 
till,  partly  alarmed  by  the  threats  of  the  one,  and 
partly  by  the  promises  of  the  other,  and  being  per- 
haps a  little  moved  with  compassion  at  the  poor 
creature's  condition,  who  stood  bleeding  and  shiver- 
ing with  the  cold,  he  at  length  agreed  ;  and  Joseph 
was  now  advancing  to  the  coach,  where,  seeing  the 
[60] 


AN    ACT    OF    KINDNESS 

lady,  who  held  the  sticks  of  her  fan  before  her  eyes, 
he  absolutely  refused,  miserable  as  he  was,  to  enter, 
unless  he  was  furnished  with  sufilcient  covering  to 
prevent  giving  the  least  offence  to  decency  —  so  per- 
fectly modest  was  this  young  man ;  such  mighty 
effects  had  the  spotless  example  of  the  amiable 
Pamela,  and  the  excellent  sermons  of  Mr.  Adams, 
■wrought  upon  him. 

Though  there  were  several  greatcoats  about  the 
coach,  it  was  not  easy  to  get  over  tliis  difficulty 
which  Joseph  had  started.  The  two  gentlemen 
complained  they  were  cold,  and  could  not  spare  a 
rag ;  the  man  of  wit  saying,  with  a  laugh,  that 
charity  began  at  home ;  and  the  coachman,  who  had 
two  greatcoats  spread  under  him,  refused  to  lend 
either,  lest  they  should  be  made  bloody :  the  lady's 
footman  desired  to  be  excused  for  the  same  reason, 
which  the  lady  herself,  notwithstanding  her  abhor- 
rence of  a  naked  man,  approved :  and  it  is  more  than 
probable  poor  Joseph,  who  obstinately  adhered  to 
his  modest  resolution,  must  have  perished,  unless 
the  postillion  (a  lad  who  hath  been  since  transported 
for  robbing  a  hen-roost)  had  voluntarily  stript  off'  a 
greatcoat,  his  only  garment,  at  tlie  same  time  swear- 
ing a  great  oath  (for  which  he  was  rebuked  by  the 
passengers),  "  that  he  would  rather  ride  in  his  shirt 
all  his  life  than  suffer  a  fellow-creature  to  lie  in  so 
miserable  a  condition."' 

[61] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Joseph,  having  put  on  the  greatcoat,  was  lifted 
into  the  coach,  which  now  proceeded  on  its  journey. 
He  declared  himself  almost  dead  with  the  cold, 
which  gave  the  man  of  wit  an  occasion  to  ask  the 
lady  if  she  could  not  accommodate  him  with  a  dram. 
She  answered,  with  some  resentment,  "  She  wondered 
at  his  asking  her  such  a  question ;  but  assured  him 
she  never  tasted  any  such  thing."" 

The  lawyer  was  inquiring  into  the  circumstances 
of  the  robbery,  when  the  coach  stopt,  and  one  of  the 
ruffians,  putting  a  pistol  in,  demanded  their  money 
of  the  passengers,  who  readily  gave  it  them ;  and 
the  lady,  in  her  fright,  delivered  up  a  little  silver 
bottle,  of  about  a  half-pint  size,  which  the  rogue, 
clapping  it  to  his  mouth,  and  drinking  her  health, 
declared,  held  some  of  the  best  Nantes  he  had  ever 
tasted :  this  the  lady  afterwards  assured  the  company 
was  the  mistake  of  her  maid,  for  that  she  had  ordered 
her  to  fill  the  bottle  with  Hungary-water. 

As  soon  as  the  fellows  were  departed,  the  lawyer, 
who  had,  it  seems,  a  case  of  pistols  in  the  seat  of  the 
coach,  informed  the  company,  that  if  it  had  been 
daylight,  and  he  could  have  come  at  his  pistols,  he 
would  not  have  submitted  to  the  robbery :  he  like- 
wise set  forth  that  he  had  often  met  highway- 
men when  he  travelled  on  horseback,  but  none 
ever  durst  attack  him ;  concluding  that,  if  he  had 
not  been  more  afraid  for  the  lady  than  for  him- 
[62] 


THE    LAWYER'S    JESTS 

self,  he  should  not  have  now  parted  with  his  monev 
so  easily. 

As  wit  is  generally  observed  to  love  to  reside  in 
empty  pockets,  so  the  gentleman  whose  ingenuity 
we  have  above  remarked,  as  soon  as  he  had  parted 
with  his  money,  began  to  grow  wonderfully  facetious. 
He  made  frequent  allusions  to  Adam  and  Eve,  and 
said  many  excellent  things  on  figs  and  fig-leaves; 
which  perhaps  gave  more  offence  to  Joseph  than  to 
any  other  in  the  company. 

The  lawyer  likewise  made  several  very  pretty  jests 
without  departing  from  his  profession.  He  said, 
"  If  Joseph  and  the  lady  were  alone,  he  would  be 
more  capable  of  making  a  conveyance  to  her,  as  his 
affairs  were  not  fettered  with  any  incumbrance  ;  he'd 
warrant  he  soon  suffered  a  recovery  by  a  writ  of 
entry,  which  was  the  proper  way  to  create  heirs  in 
tail ;  that,  for  his  own  part,  he  would  engage  to  make 
so  firm  a  settlement  in  a  coach,  that  there  should  be 
no  danger  of  an  ejectment,"  with  an  inimdation  of 
the  like  gibberish,  which  he  continued  to  vent  till 
the  coach  arrived  at  an  inn,  where  one  servant-maid 
only  was  up,  in  readiness  to  attend  the  coachman, 
and  furnish  him  with  cold  meat  and  a  dram.  Joseph 
desired  to  alight,  and  that  he  might  have  a  bed  pre- 
pared for  him,  which  the  maid  readily  promised  to 
perform  ;  and,  being  a  good-natured  wench,  and  not 
so  squeamish  as  the  lady  had  been,  she  clapt  a  large 
[63] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

fagot  on  the  fire,  and,  furnisliing  Jaseph  with  a  great- 
coat belonging  to  one  of  the  hostlers,  desired  him  to 
!sit  down  and  warm  himself  whilst  she  made  his  bed. 
The  coachman,  in  the  meantime,  took  an  opportunity 
to  call  up  a  surgeon,  who  lived  within  a  few  doors; 
after  which,  he  reminded  his  passengers  liow  late 
they  were,  and,  after  they  had  taken  leave  of  Joseph, 
harried  them  off  as  fast  as  he  could. 

The  wench  soon  got  Joseph  to  bed,  and  promised 
to  use  her  interest  to  borrow  him  a  shirt ;  but  imag- 
ining, as  she  afterwards  said,  by  his  being  so  bloody, 
that  he  must  be  a  dead  man,  she  ran  with  all  speed 
to  hasten  the  surgeon,  who  was  more  than  half  drest, 
apprehending  that  tlie  coach  had  been  overturned, 
and  some  gentleman  or  lady  hurt.  As  soon  as  the 
wench  had  informed  him  at  his  window  that  it  was  a 
poor  foot-passenger  who  had  been  stripped  of  all  he 
had,  and  almost  murdered,  he  chid  her  for  disturbing 
him  so  early,  slipped  off  his  clothes  again,  and  very 
quietly  returned  to  bed  and  to  sleep. 

Aiu'ora  now  began  to  shew  her  blooming  cheeks 
over  the  hills,  whilst  ten  millions  of  feathered  song- 
sters, in  jocund  chorus,  repeated  odes  a  thousand 
times  sweeter  than  those  of  our  laureat,  and  sung 
both  the  day  and  the  song ;  when  the  master  of  the 
inn,  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  arose,  and  learning  from  his 
maid  an  account  of  the  robbery,  and  the  situation  of 
his  poor  naked  guest,  he  shook  his  head,  and  cried, 
[64] 


CHARITY    DENIED 

"  good-lack-a-day ! "  and  then  ordered  the  girl  to 
carry  him  one  of  his  own  shirts. 

Mrs.  Tow-wouse  was  just  awake,  and  had  stretched 
out  her  arms  in  vain  to  lold  her  departed  husband, 
when  the  maid  entered  the  room.  "  Who 's  there  ? 
Betty  ?  "  —  **  Yes,  madam."  —  "  Where 's  your  mas- 
ter ? ''"'  —  "  He 's  without,  madam  ;  he  hath  sent  me 
for  a  shirt  to  lend  a  poor  naked  man,  who  hath  been 
robbed  and  murdered."  —  "  Touch  one  if  you  dare, 
you  slut,"  said  Mrs.  Tow-wouse :  *'  your  master  is  a 
pretty  sort  of  a  man,  to  take  in  naked  vagabonds, 
and  clothe  them  with  his  own  clothes.  I  shall  have 
no  such  doings.  If  you  offer  to  touch  anything,  I  '11 
throw  the  chamber-pot  at  your  head.  Go,  send  your 
master  to  me."  — "  Yes,  madam,"  answered  Betty. 
As  soon  as  he  came  in,  she  thus  began  :  "  What  the 
devil  do  you  mean  by  this,  Mr.  Tow-wouse  ?  Am  I  to 
buy  shirts  to  lend  to  a  set  of  scabby  rascals  ?  "  —  "  My 
dear,"  said  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  "  this  is  a  poor  wretch." 
—  "  Yes,"  says  she,  "  I  know  it  is  a  poor  wretch ; 
but  what  the  devil  have  we  to  do  with  poor 
wretches  ?  The  law  makes  us  provide  for  too  many 
already.  We  shall  have  thirty  or  forty  poor  wretches 
in  red  coats  shortly."  —  "  My  dear,"  cries  Tow-wouse, 
"  this  man  hath  been  robbed  of  all  he  hath."  — 
"  Well  then,"  said  she,  "  where 's  his  money  to  pay 
his  reckoning  ?  WTiy  doth  not  such  a  fellow  go  to 
an  alehouse  ?     I  shall  send  him  packing  as  soon  as  I 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

am  up,  I  assure  you."  —  "  My  dear,"  said  he,  "  com- 
mon charity  won't  suffer  you  to  do  that."  —  "  Com- 
mon charity,  a  f — t ! "  says  she,  "  common  charity 
teaches  us  to  provide  for  ourselves  and  our  families  ; 
and  I  and  mine  won't  be  ruined  by  your  charity,  I 
assure  you."  —  "  Well,"  says  he,  "  my  dear,  do  as  you 
will,  when  you  are  up ;  you  know  I  never  contradict 
you."  —  "  No,"  says  she ;  "  if  the  devil  was  to  con- 
tradict me,  I  would  make  the  house  too  hot  to  hold 
him." 

With  such  like  discourses  they  consumed  near  half- 
an-hour,  whilst  Betty  provided  a  shirt  fi'om  the 
hostler,  who  was  one  of  her  sweethearts,  and  put  it 
on  poor  Joseph.  The  surgeon  had  likewise  at  last 
visited  him,  and  washed  and  drest  his  wounds,  and 
was  now  come  to  acquaint  Mr.  Tow-wouse  that  his 
guest  was  in  such  extreme  danger  of  his  life,  that  he 
scarce  saw  any  hopes  of  his  recovery.  "  Here 's  a 
pretty  kettle  of  fish,"  cries  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  "  you 
have  brought  upon  us !  W^e  are  like  to  have  a 
funeral  at  our  own  expense."  Tow-wouse  (who,  not- 
withstanding his  charity,  would  have  given  his  vote 
as  freely  as  ever  he  did  at  an  election,  that  any  other 
house  in  the  kingdom  should  have  quiet  possession  of 
his  guest)  answered,  "  My  dear,  I  am  not  to  blame ; 
he  was  brought  hither  by  the  stage-coach,  and  Betty 
had  put  him  to  bed  before  I  was  stirring."  —  "  I  'U 
Betty  her,"  savs  she.  — At  which,  with  half  her  gar- 
[66j 


THE    SURGEON'S    VISIT 

merits  on,  the  other  half  under  her  arm,  she  sallied 
out  in  quest  of  the  unfortunate  Betty,  whilst  Tow- 
wouse  and  the  surgeon  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  poor 
Joseph,  and  inquire  into  the  circumstances  of  this 
melancholy  affair. 


[67] 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  JOSEPH  DURING  HIS  SICKNESS  AT  THE 
INN,  WITH  THE  CURIOUS  DISCOURSE  BETWEEN  HIM 
AND  MR.  BARNABAS,  THE  PARSON  OF  THE  PARISH. 

jA  S  soon  as  Joseph  had  communicated  a  par- 
/^k        ticular  history  of  the  robberv,  together 

/  ^k  with  a  short  account  of  himself,  and  his 
"^^  intended  journey,  he  asked  the  surgeon 
if  he  apprehended  him  to  be  in  any  danger :  to 
which  the  surgeon  very  honestly  answered,  "  He 
feared  he  was ;  for  that  his  pulse  was  veiy  exalted 
and  feverish,  and,  if  his  fever  should  prove  more  than 
symptomatic,  it  would  be  impossible  to  save  Jiim." 
Joseph,  fetching  a  deep  sigh,  cried,  "  Poor  Fanny,  I 
would  I  could  have  lived  to  see  thee !  but  God\s  will 
be  done." 

The  surgeon  then  advised  him,  if  he  had  any 
worldly  affairs  to  settle,  that  he  would  do  it  as  soon 
as  possible  ;  for,  though  he  hoped  he  might  recover, 
yet  he  thought  himself  obliged  to  acquaint  him  he 
was  in  great  danger ;  and  if  the  malign  concoction 
of  his  humours  should  cause  a  suscitation  of  his  fever, 
he  might  soon  grow  delirious  and  incapable  to  make 
[68] 


THE    CLERGYMAN'S    VISIT 

his  will.  Joseph  answered,  *•  That  it  was  impossible 
for  any  creature  in  the  universe  to  be  in  a  poorer 
condition  than  himself;  for  since  the  robbery  he  had 
not  one  thing  of  any  kind  whatever  which  he  could 
call  his  own."  "  I  had,"  said  he,  "  a  poor  little  piece 
of  gold,  which  they  took  away,  that  would  have  been 
a  comfort  to  me  in  all  my  afflictions ;  but  surely, 
Fanny,  I  want  nothing  to  remind  me  of  thee.  I 
have  thy  dear  image  in  ray  heart,  and  no  villain 
can  ever  tear  it  thence." 

Joseph  desired  paper  and  pens,  to  write  a  letter,  but 
they  were  lefused  him  ;  and  he  was  advised  to  use  all 
his  endeavours  to  compose  himself.  They  then  left 
him  ;  and  Mr.  Tow-wouse  sent  to  a  clergyman  to 
como  and  administer  his  good  offices  to  the  soul  of 
poor  Joseph,  since  tlie  surgeon  despaired  of  making 
any  successful  applications  to  his  body. 

Mr.  Barnabas  (for  that  was  the  clergyman's  name) 
came  as  soon  as  sent  for ;  and,  having  first  drank  a 
dish  of  tea  with  the  landlady,  and  afterwards  a  bowl 
of  punch  with  the  landlord,  he  walked  up  to  the 
room  where  Joseph  lay  ;  but,  finding  him  asleep, 
returned  to  take  the  other  sneaker  ;  which  when  he 
had  finished,  he  again  crept  softly  up  to  the  chamber- 
door,  and,  having  opened  it,  heard  the  sick  man  talk- 
ing to  himself  in  the  following  manner  :  — 

"  O  most  adorable  Pamela  !  most  virtuous  sister  ! 
whose  example  could  alone  enable  me  to  withstand 
[69J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

all  the  temptations  of  riches  and  beauty,  and  to  pre- 
serve my  virtue  pure  and  chaste  for  the  arms  of 
my  dear  Fanny,  if  it  had  pleased  Heaven  that  I 
should  ever  have  come  unto  them.  What  riches,  or 
honours,  or  pleasures,  can  make  us  amends  for  the 
loss  of  innocence?  Doth  not  that  alone  afford  us 
more  consolation  than  all  worldly  acquisitions  ? 
What  but  innocence  and  virtue  could  give  any  com- 
fort to  such  a  miserable  wretch  as  I  am  ?  Yet  these 
can  make  me  prefer  this  sick  and  painful  bed  to 
all  the  pleasures  I  should  have  found  in  my  lady's. 
These  can  make  me  face  death  without  fear ;  and 
though  I  love  my  Fanny  more  than  ever  man  loved 
a  woman,  these  can  teach  me  to  resign  myself  to  the 
Divine  will  without  repining.  O  thou  delightful 
charming  creature!  if. Heaven  had  indulged  thee  to 
my  arms,  the  poorest,  humblest  state  would  have 
been  a  paradise;  I  could  have  lived  with  thee  in 
the  lowest  cottage  without  envying  the  palaces,  the 
dainties,  or  the  riches  of  any  man  breathing.  But  I 
must  leave  thee,  leave  thee  for  ever,  my  dearest 
aneel !  I  must  think  of  another  world ;  and  I 
heartily  pray  thou  may'st  meet  comfort  in  this,'"'  — • 
Barnabas  thought  he  had  lieard  enough,  so  down- 
stairs he  went,  and  told  Tow-wouse  he  could  do  his 
guest  no  service ;  for  that  he  was  very  light-headed, 
and  had  uttered  nothing  but  a  I'hapsody  of  nonsense 
all  the  time  he  staved  in  the  room. 
[  70  ] 


PREPARATION    FOR    DEATH 

The  surgeon  returned  in  the  afternoon,  and  found 
his  patient  in  a  higher  fever,  as  he  said,  than  when 
he  left  him,  though  not  delirious  ;  for,  notwithstand- 
ing Mr.  Bamabas''s  opinion,  he  had  not  been  once 
out  of  his  senses  since  his  arrival  at  the  inn. 

Mr.  Barnabas  was  again  sent  for,  and  with  much 
difficulty  prevailed  on  to  make  another  visit.  As 
soon  as  he  entered  the  room  he  told  Joseph  "  He 
was  come  to  pray  by  him,  and  to  prepare  him  for  an- 
other world :  in  the  first  place,  therefore,  lie  hoped 
he  had  repented  of  all  his  sins."  Joseph  answered, 
"  He  hoped  he  had  ;  but  there  was  one  thing  which 
he  knew  not  whether  he  should  call  a  sin  ;  if  it  was, 
he  feared  he  should  die  in  the  commission  of  it ;  and 
that  was,  the  regret  of  parting  with  a  young  woman 
whom  he  loved  as  tenderly  as  he  did  his  heart- 
strings." Barnabas  bad  him  be  assured  "  that  any 
repining  at  the  Divine  will  was  one  of  the  greatest 
sins  he  could  commit;  that  he  ought  to  forget  all 
carnal  affections,  and  think  of  better  things."  Joseph 
said,  "  That  neither  in  this  world  nor  the  next  he 
could  forget  his  Fanny ;  and  that  the  thought,  how- 
ever grievous,  of  parting  from  her  for  ever,  was  not 
half  so  tormenting  as  the  fear  of  what  she  would 
suffer  when  she  knew  his  misfortune."  Barnabas 
said, "  That  such  fears  argued  a  diffidence  and  despon- 
dence very  criminal ;  that  he  must  divest  himself  of 
all  human  passions,  and  fix  his  heart  above."  Joseph 
[71] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

answered,  "  That  was  what  he  desired  to  do,  and 
should  be  obliged  to  him  if  he  would  enable  him  to 
accomplish  it."  Barnabas  replied,  "  That  must  be 
done  by  grace."  Joseph  besought  him  to  discover 
how  he  might  attain  it.  Barnabas  answered,  "By 
prayer  and  faith."  He  then  questioned  him  concern- 
ing his  forgiveness  of  the  thieves.  Joseph  answered, 
"  He  feared  that  was  more  than  he  could  do  ;  for 
nothing  would  give  him  more  pleasure  than  to  hear 
they  were  taken." —  "  That,"  cries  Barnabas,  "is  for 
the  sake  of  justice."  —  "  Yes,"  said  Joseph,  "  but  if 
I  was  to  meet  them  again,  I  am  afraid  I  should 
attack  them,  and  kill  them  too,  if  I  could."  — 
"  Doubtless,"  answered  Barnabas, "  it  is  la>vful  to  kill 
a  thief;  but  can  you  say  you  forgive  them  as  a  Chris- 
tian ought  ? "  Joseph  desired  to  know  what  that 
forgiveness  was.  "  That  is,"  answered  Barnabas,  "  to 
forgive  them  as  — as  —  it  is  to  forgive  them  as  —  in 
short,  it  is  to  forgive  them  as  a  Chnstian."  —  Joseph 
replied,  "  He  forgave  them  as  much  as  he  could."  — 
"Well,  well,"  said  Barnabas,  "that  will  do."  He 
then  demanded  of  him,  "  If  he  remembered  any  more 
sins  unrepented  of;  and  if  he  did,  he  desired  him  to 
make  haste  and  repent  of  them  as  fast  as  he  could, 
that  they  might  repeat  over  a  few  prayers  together." 
Joseph  answered,  "  He  could  not  recollect  any  great 
crimes  he  had  been  guilty  of,  and  that  those  he  had 
committed  he  was  sincerely  sorry  for."  Barnabas  said 
[72] 


BETTY'S    KINDNESS 

that  was  enough,  and  then  proceeded  to  prayer  with 
all  the  expedition  he  was  master  of,  some  company 
then  waiting  for  him  below  in  the  parlour,  where  the 
ingredients  for  punch  were  all  in  readiness ;  but  no 
one  would  squeeze  the  oranges  till  he  came. 

Joseph  complained  he  was  dry,  and  desired  a  little 
tea ;  which  Barnabas  reported  to  Mrs.  Tow-wouse, 
who  answered,  "  She  had  just  done  drinking  it,  and 
could  not  be  slopping  all  day  ; "  but  ordered  Betty  to 
carry  him  up  some  small  beer. 

Betty  obeyed  her  mistress''s  commands ;  but  Joseph, 
as  soon  as  he  had  tasted  it,  said,  he  feared  it  would  in- 
crease his  fever,  and  that  he  longed  very  much  for 
tea  ;  to  which  the  good-natured  Betty  answered,  he 
should  have  tea,  if  there  was  any  in  the  land ;  she 
accordingly  went  and  bought  him  some  herself,  and 
attended  him  with  it ;  where  we  will  leave  her  and 
Joseph  together  for  some  time,  to  entertain  the 
reader  with   other   mattei's. 


[73] 


CHAPTER    FOURTEEN 

BEDfG   VERY    FULL   OF     ADVENTURES     WHICH    SUCCEEDED 
EACH    OTHER   AT   THE    INN. 

IT  was  now  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  when  a  grave 
person  rode  into  the  inn,  and,  committing  his 
horse  to  the  hostler,  went  directly  into  the 
kitchen,  and,  having  called  for  a  pipe  of  tobacco, 
took  his  place  by  the  fireside,  where  several  other  per- 
sons were  likewise  assembled. 

The  discourse  ran  altogether  on  the  robbery  which 
was  committed  the  night  before,  and  on  the  poor 
wretch  who  lay  above  in  the  dreadful  condition  in 
which  we  have  already  seen  him.  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
said,  "  She  wondered  what  the  devil  Tom  Whipwell 
meant  by  bringing  such  guests  to  her  house,  when 
there  were  so  many  alehouses  on  the  road  proper  for 
their  reception.  But  she  assured  him,  if  he  died,  the 
parish  should  be  at  the  expense  of  the  funeral."  She 
added,  "  Nothing  would  serve  the  fellow"'s  turn  but 
tea,  she  would  assure  him."  Betty,  who  was  just 
returned  from  her  charitable  office,  answered,  she 
believed  he  was  a  gentleman,  for  she  never  saw  a  finer 
[74] 


MRS.    TOW-WOUSE 

skin  in  her  life.  "  Pox  on  his  kin  ! ""  replied  Mrs. 
Tow-wouse, "  I  suppose  that  is  all  we  are  like  to  have 
for  the  reckoning.  I  desire  no  such  gentlemen  should 
ever  call  at  the  Dragon  "  (which  it  seems  was  the 
sign  of  the  inn). 

The  gentleman  lately  an'ived  discovered  a  great 
deal  of  emotion  at  the  distress  of  this  poor  creature, 
whom  he  obsei'ved  to  be  fallen  not  into  the  most 
compassionate  hands.  And  indeed,  if  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
had  given  no  utterance  to  the  sweetness  of  her  temper, 
nature  had  taken  such  pains  in  her  countenance,  that 
Hogarth  himself  never  gave  more  expression  to  a 
picture. 

Her  person  was  short,  thin,  and  crooked.  Her 
forehead  projected  in  the  middle,  and  thence  de- 
scended in  a  declivity  to  the  top  of  her  nose,  which 
was  sharp  and  red,  and  would  have  hiuig  over  her 
lips,  had  not  nature  turned  up  the  end  of  it.  Her 
lips  were  two  bits  of  skin,  which,  whenever  she  spoke, 
she  drew  together  in  a  purse.  Her  chin  was  peaked ; 
and  at  the  upper  end  of  that  skin  which  composed 
her  cheeks,  stood  two  bones,  that  almost  hid  a  pair 
of  small  red  eyes.  Add  to  this  a  voice  most  wonder- 
fully adapted  to  the  sentiments  it  was  to  convey,  be- 
ing both  loud  and  hoarse. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  whether  the  gentleman  had 
conceived  a  greater  dislike  for  his  landlady  or  com- 
passion for  her  unhappy  guest.  He  inquired  very 
[75] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

earnestly  of  the  surgeon,  who  vas  now  come  into  the 
kitchen,  whether  he  had  any  hopes  of  liis  recovery  ? 
He  begged  him  to  use  all  possible  means  towards  it, 
telling  him, "  it  was  the  duty  of  men  of  all  professions 
to  apply  their  skill  gratis  for  the  relief  of  the  poor 
and  necessitous."  The  surgeon  answered,  "  He  should 
take  proper  care ;  but  he  defied  all  the  surgeons 
in  London  to  do  him  any  good."  — "  Pray,  sir,"" 
said  the  gentleman,  "what  are  his  wounds.'*'"  — 
"  Why,  do  you  know  anything  of  wounds  ? "  says 
the  surgeon  (winking  upon  Mrs.  Tow-wouse).  — 
"  Sir,  I  have  a  small  smattering  in  surgery,"  answered 
the  gentleman.  —  "A  smattering  —  ho,  ho,  ho  !  " 
said  the  surgeon  ;  "  I  believe  it  is  a  smattering 
indeed." 

Tlie  company  were  all  attentive,  expecting  to  hear 
the  doctor,  who  was  what  they  call  a  dry  fellow, 
expose  the  gentleman. 

He  began  therefore  with  an  air  of  triumph:  "I 
suppose,  sir,  you  have  travelled  ?  "  —  "  No,  really, 
sir,"  said  the  gentleman.  —  "  Ho  !  then  you  have 
practised  in  the  hospitals  perhaps  ?  "  —  "  No,  sir." 
—  "  Hum  !  not  that  neither .''  Whence,  sir,  then, 
if  I  may  be  so  bold  to  inquire,  have  you  got  your 
knowledge  in  surgery?"  —  "Sir,"  answered  the 
gentleman,  "  I  do  not  pi-etend  to  much ;  but  the 
little  I  know  I  have  from  books."  —  "  Books ! "  cries 
the  doctor.  "  What,  I  suppose  you  have  read  Galen 
[76] 


A    DISPLAY    OF    LEARNING 

and  Hippocrates  !  *"  —  "  No,  sir,""  said  the  gentleman. 
— "  How !  you  understand  surgery,"  answers  the 
doctor,  "  and  not  read  Galen  and  Hippocrates  ?  "  — 
"  Sir,"  cries  the  other,  "  I  believe  there  are  many 
surgeons  who  have  never  read  these  authors."  —  "I 
believe  so  too,"  says  the  doctor,  "  more  shame  for 
them ;  but,  thanks  to  my  education,  I  have  them  by 
heart,  and  very  seldom  go  without  them  both  in  my 
pocket."  —  "  They  are  pretty  large  books,"  said  the 
gentleman.  —  "  Aye,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  believe  I 
know  how  large  they  are  better  than  you."  (At 
which  he  fell  a  winking,  and  the  whole  company 
burst  into  a  laugh.) 

The  doctor  pursuing  his  triumph,  asked  the 
gentleman,  "  If  he  did  not  understand  physic  as  well 
as  surgery."  "  Rather  better,"  answered  the  gentle- 
man.—  "Aye,  like  enough,"  cries  the  doctor,  with 
a  wink.  "  Why,  I  know  a  little  of  physic  too."  — 
*'  I  wish  I  knew  half  so  much,"  said  Tow-wouse,  "  I  'd 
never  wear  an  apron  again."  —  "  Why,  I  beheve, 
landlord,"  cries  the  doctor,  "there  are  few  men, 
though  I  say  it,  within  twelve  miles  of  the  place, 
that  handle  a  fever  better.  Venknte  accurrite  morho  : 
that  is  my  method.  I  suppose,  brother,  you  under- 
stand Latin  ?  "  —  "A  little,"  says  the  gentleman.  — 
"  Aye  and  Greek  now,  I  '11  warrant  you  :  Ton  da- 
pomibominos  poluflosboio  Thalasses.  But  I  have 
almost  forgot  these  things :  I  could  have  repeated 
[77] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Homer  by  heart  once/' "  Ifags  !  the  gentleman 

has  caught  a  traytor,"  says  Mrs.  Tow-wouse ;  at 
which  they  all  fell  a  laughing. 

The  gentleman,  who  had  not  the  least  affection 
for  joking,  very  contentedly  suffered  the  doctor  to 
enjoy  his  victory,  which  he  did  with  no  small  satis- 
faction ;  and,  having  sufficiently  sounded  his  depth, 
told  him,  "  He  was  thoroughly  convinced  of  his 
great  learning  and  abilities ;  and  that  he  would  be 
obliged  to  him  if  he  would  let  him  know  his  opinion 
of  his  patient's  case  above-stairs."  —  "  Sir,"  says  the 
doctor,  "  his  case  is  that  of  a  dead  man  —  the  con- 
tusion on  his  head  has  perforated  the  internal  mem- 
brane of  the  occiput,  and  divelicated  that  radical 
small  minute  invisible  nerve  which  coheres  to  the 
pericranium ;  and  this  was  attended  with  a  fever 
at  first  symptomatic,  then  pneumatic ;  and  he  is  at 
length  grown  deliriuus,  or  delirious,  as  the  x-ulgar 
express  it." 

He  was  proceeding  in  this  learned  manner,  when 
a  mighty  noise  interrupted  him.  Some  young 
fellows  in  the  neighbourhood  had  taken  one  of  the 
thieves,  and  were  bringing  him  into  the  inn.  Betty 
ran  upstairs  witli  this  news  to  Joseph,  who  begged 
they  might  search  for  a  little  piece  of  broken  gold, 
which  had  a  ribband  tied  to  it,  and  which  he  could 
swear  to  amongst  all  the  hoards  of  the  richest  men 
in  the  universe. 


MR.    ADAMS    ARRIVES 

Notwithstanding  the  fellow's  persisting  in  his  in- 
nocence, the  mob  were  very  busy  in  searching  him, 
and  presently,  among  other  things,  pulled  out  the 
piece  of  gold  just  mentioned  ;  which  Betty  no  sooner 
saw  than  she  laid  violent  hands  on  it,  and  conveyed 
it  up  to  Joseph,  who  received  it  with  raptures  of  joy, 
and,  hugging  it  in  his  bosom,  declared  he  could  now 
die  contented. 

Within  a  few  minutes  afterwards  came  in  some 
other  fellows,  with  a  bundle  which  they  had  found 
in  a  ditch,  and  which  was  indeed  the  cloaths  which 
had  been  stripped  off  from  Joseph,  and  the  other 
things  they  had  taken  from  him. 

The  gentleman  no  sooner  saw  the  coat  than  he 
declared  he  knew  the  lively  ;  and,  if  it  had  been 
taken  from  the  poor  creature  above-stairs,  desired 
he  might  see  him  ;  for  that  he  was  very  well  acquainted 
with  the  family  to  whom  that  livery  belonged. 

He  was  accordingly  conducted  up  by  Betty;  but 
what,  reader,  was  the  surprize  on  both  sides,  when 
he  saw  Joseph  was  the  person  in  bed,  and  when 
Joseph  discovered  the  face  of  his  good  friend  Mr. 
Abraham  Adams ! 

It  would  be  impertinent  to  insert  a  discourse 
which  chiefly  turned  on  the  relation  of  matters 
already  well  known  to  the  reader ;  for,  as  soon  as  the 
curate  had  satisfied  Joseph  concerning  the  perfect 
health  of  his  Fanny,  he  was  on  his  side  very  inquisi- 
[79] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

tive  into  all  the  particulars  which  had  produced 
this  unfortunate  accident. 

To  return  therefore  to  the  kitchen,  where  a  great 
variety  of  company  were  now  assembled  from  all  the 
rooms  of  the  house,  as  well  as  the  neighbourhood : 
so  much  delight  do  men  take  in  contemplating  the 
countenance  of  a  thief. 

Mr.  Tow-wouse  began  to  mb  his  hands  with 
pleasure  at  seeing  so  large  an  assembly  ;  who  would, 
he  hoped,  shortly  adjourn  into  several  apartments, 
in  order  to  discourse  over  the  robbery,  and  drink  a 
health  to  all  honest  men.  But  Mi's.  Tow-wouse, 
whose  misfortune  it  was  commonly  to  see  things  a 
little  perversely,  began  to  rail  at  those  who  brought 
the  fellow  into  her  house ;  telling  her  husband, 
"  They  were  very  likely  to  thrive  who  kept  a  house 
of  entertainment  for  beggars  and  thieves." 

The  mob  had  now  finished  their  search,  and  could 
find  nothing  about  the  captive  likely  to  prove  any 
evidence ;  for  as  to  the  cloaths,  though  the  mob  were 
very  well  satisfied  with  that  proof,  yet,  as  the  sur- 
geon observed,  they  could  not  convict  him,  because 
they  were  not  found  in  his  custody  ;  to  which  Barna- 
bas agreed,  and  added  that  these  were  bona  wav'iatay 
and  belonged  to  the  lord  of  the  manor. 

"  How,"  says  the  surgeon,  "  do  you  say  these 
goods  belong  to  the  lord  of  the  manor  ? "  —  "I  do," 
cried  Barnabas.  — "  Then  I  deny  it,"  savs  the  sur- 
[80] 


EVIDENCE    OF    GUILT 

geon  :  "  what  can  the  lord  of  the  manor  have  to  do 
in  the  case  ?  Will  any  one  attempt  to  persuade  me 
that  what  a  man  finds  is  not  his  own  ?  "  —  "I  have 
heard,"'"'  says  an  old  fellow  in  the  corner,  "justice 
Wise-one  say,  that,  if  every  man  had  his  right,  what- 
ever is  found  belongs  to  the  king  of  London.''  — 
"  That  may  be  true,""  says  Barnabsis,  "  in  some  sense ; 
for  the  law  makes  a  difference  between  things  stolen 
and  things  found ;  for  a  thing  may  be  stolen  that 
never  is  found,  and  a  thing  may  be  found  that  never 
was  stolen  :  Now,  goods  that  are  both  stolen  and 
found  are  zcaviafa ;  and  they  belong  to  the  lord  of  the 
manor.""  —  "  So  the  lord  of  the  manor  is  the  receiver 
of  stolen  goods,""  says  the  doctor  ;  at  which  there  was 
an  universal  laugh,  being  first  begun  by  himself. 

While  the  prisoner,  by  persisting  in  his  innocence, 
had  almost  (as  there  was  no  evidence  against  him) 
brought  over  Baniabas,  the  surgeon,  Tow-wouse,  and 
several  others  to  his  side,  Betty  informed  them  that 
they  had  overlooked  a  little  piece  of  gold,  which  she 
had  carried  up  to  the  man  in  bed,  and  which  he  offered 
to  swear  to  amongst  a  million,  aye,  amongst  ten 
thousand.  This  immediately  turned  the  scale  against 
the  prisoner,  and  every  one  now  concluded  him 
guilty.  It  was  resolved,  therefore,  to  keep  him  se- 
cured that  night,  and  early  in  the  morning  to  carry 
him  before  a  justice. 

[81] 


CHAPTER    FIFTEEN 

SHOWTNG  HOW  MRS.  TOW-WOUSE  WAS  A  LITTLE  MOLLI- 
FIED; AND  HOW  OFFICIOUS  ME.  BARNABAS  AND 
THE  SURGEON  WERE  TO  PROSECUTE  THE  THIEF: 
WITH  A  DISSERTATION  ACCOUNTING  FOR  THEIR 
ZEAL,  AND  THAT  OF  MANY  OTHER  PERSONS  NOT 
MENTIONED    IN    THIS    HISTORY. 

ETTY  told  her  mistress  she  believed  the 
man  in  bed  was  i  greater  man  than  they 
took  him  for ;  for,  besides  the  extreme 
whiteness  of  his  skin,  and  the  softness  of 
his  hands,  she  observed  a  very  great  familiarity  be- 
tween the  gentleman  and  him  ;  and  added,  she  was 
certain  they  were  intimate  acquaintance,  if  not 
relations. 

This  somewhat  abated  the  severity  of  Mrs.  Tow- 
wouse^s  countenance.  She  said,  "  God  forbid  she 
should  not  discharge  the  duty  of  a  Christian,  since  the 
poor  gentleman  was  brought  to  her  house.  She  had 
a  natural  antipathy  to  vagabonds ;  but  could  pity  the 
misfortunes  of  a  Christian  as  soon  as  another.'' 
Tow-wouse  said,  "  If  the  traveller  be  a  gentleman, 
though  he  hath  no  money  about  him  now,  we  shall 
[  82  ] 


THE    PIECE    OF    GOLD 

most  likely  be  paid  hereafter ;  so  you  may  begin  to 
score  whenever  you  will.""  Mrs.  Tow-wouse  answered, 
"  Hold  your  simple  tongue,  and  don't  instruct  me  in 
my  business.  I  am  sure  I  am  sorry  for  the  gentle- 
man''s  misfortune  with  all  my  heart ;  and  I  hope  the 
villain  Avho  hath  used  him  so  barbarously  will  be 
hanged.  Betty,  go  see  what  he  wants.  God  forbid 
he  should  want  anything  in  my  house." 

Barnabas  and  the  surgeon  went  up  to  Joseph  to 
satisfy  themselves  concerning  the  piece  of  gold ; 
Joseph  was  ^vith  difficulty  prevailed  upon  to  show  it 
them,  but  would  by  no  entreaties  be  brought  to  de- 
liver it  out  of  his  own  possession.  He  however 
attested  this  to  be  the  same  which  had  been  taken 
from  him,  and  Betty  was  ready  to  swear  to  the  find- 
ing it  on  the  thief. 

The  only  difficulty  that  remained  was,  how  to  pro- 
duce this  gold  before  the  justice  ;  for  as  to  carrying 
Joseph  himself,  it  seemed  impossible  ;  nor  was  there 
any  great  likelihood  of  obtaiin'ng  it  from  him,  for 
he  had  fastened  it  with  a  ribband  to  his  arm,  and 
solemnly  vowed  that  nothing  but  irresistible  force 
should  ever  separate  them  ;  in  which  resolution,  Mr. 
Adams,  clenching  a  fist  rather  less  than  the  knuckle 
of  an  ox,  declared  he  would  support  him. 

A  dispute  arose  on  this  occasion  concerning  evi- 
dence not  very  necessary  to  be  related  here ;  after 
which  the  surgeon  dressed  Mr.  Joseph's  head,  still 
[83j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

persisting  in  the  imminent  danger  in  which  his  patient 
lay,  but  concluding,  with  a  very  important  look, 
"  That  he  began  to  have  some  hopes ;  that  he  should 
send  him  a  sanative  soporiferous  draught,  and  would 
see  him  in  the  morning."  After  which  Barnabas 
and  he  departed,  and  left  Mr.  Joseph  and  Mr.  Adams 
together. 

Adams  informed  Joseph  of  the  occasion  of  this 
journey  which  he  was  making  to  London,  namely,  to 
publish  three  volumes  of  sermons ;  being  encouraged, 
as  he  said,  by  an  advertisement  lately  set  forth  by  the 
society  of  booksellers,  who  proposed  to  purchase  any 
copies  offered  to  them,  at  a  price  to  be  settled  by  two 
persons;  but  though  he  imagined  he  should  get  a 
considerable  sum  of  money  on  this  occasion,  which  his 
family  were  in  urgent  need  of,  he  protested  he  would 
not  leave  Joseph  in  his  present  condition  :  finally,  he 
told  him,  "  He  had  nine  shillings  and  threepence 
halfpenny  in  his  pocket,  which  he  was  welcome  to  use 
as  he  pleased.'' 

This  goodness  of  parson  Adams  brought  tears  into 
Joseph's  eyes  ;  he  declared,  *'  He  had  now  a  second 
reason  to  desire  life,  that  he  might  show  his  gratitude 
to  such  a  friend."  Adams  bad  him  "be  cheerful; 
for  that  he  plainly  saw  the  surgeon,  besides  his  igno- 
rance, desired  to  make  a  merit  of  curing  him,  though 
the  wounds  in  his  head,  he  perceived,  were  by  no 
means  dangerous ;  that  he  was  convinced  he  had  no 
[84] 


CONVALESCENCE 

fever,  and  doubted  not  but  he  would  be  able  to  travel 
in  a  day  or  two."" 

These  words  infused  a  spirit  into  Joseph ;  he  said, 
"  He  found  himself  very  sore  from  the  bruises,  but 
had  no  reason  to  think  any  of  his  bones  injured,  or 
that  he  had  received  any  harm  in  his  inside,  unless 
that  he  felt  something  very  odd  in  his  stomach  ; 
but  he  knew  not  whether  that  might  not  arise  from 
not  having  eaten  one  morsel  for  above  twenty-four 
hours."  Being  then  asked  if  he  had  any  inclination 
to  eat,  he  answered  in  the  affirmative.  Then  parson 
Adams  desired  him  to  "name  what  he  had  the 
greatest  fancy  for ;  whether  a  poached  egg,  or 
chicken-broth."  He  answered,  "  He  could  eat  both 
very  well ;  but  that  he  seemed  to  have  the  greatest 
appetite  for  a  piece  of  boiled  beef  and  cabbage." 

Adams  was  pleased  with  so  perfect  a  confinnation 
that  he  had  not  the  least  fever,  but  advised  him  to 
a  lighter  diet  for  that  evening.  He  accordingly  ate 
either  a  rabbit  or  a  fowl,  I  never  could  with  any 
tolerable  certainty  discover  which  ;  after  this  he  was, 
by  Mrs.  Tow-wouse''s  order,  conveyed  into  a  better 
bed  and  equipped  with  one  of  her  husband's  shirts. 

In  the  morning  early,  Barnabas  and  the  surgeon 
came  to  the  inn,  in  order  to  see  the  thief  conveyed 
before  the  justice.  They  had  consumed  the  whole 
night  in  debating  what  measures  they  should  take  to 
produce  the  piece  of  gold  in  evidence  against  him ; 
[85] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

for  they  were  both  extremely  zealous  in  the  business, 
though  neither  of  them  were  in  the  least  interested 
in  the  prosecution ;  neither  of  them  had  ever  re- 
ceived any  private  injury  fi'om  the  fellow,  nor  had 
either  of  them  ever  been  suspected  of  loving  the 
publick  well  enough  to  give  them  a  sermon  or  a  dose 
of  physic  for  nothing. 

To  help  our  reader,  therefore,  as  much  as  possible 
to  account  for  this  zeal,  we  must  inform  him  that,  as 
this  parish  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  no  lawyer 
in  it,  there  had  been  a  constant  contention  between 
the  two  doctoi's,  spiritual  and  physical,  concerning 
their  abilities  in  a  science,  in  which,  as  neither  of  them 
professed  it,  they  had  equal  pretensions  to  dispute 
each  other"'s  opinions.  These  disputes  were  carried 
on  with  great  contempt  on  both  sides,  and  had  al- 
most divided  the  parish  ;  Mr.  Tow-wouse  and  one 
half  of  the  neighbours  inclining  to  the  surgeon,  and 
Mrs.  Tow-wouse  with  the  other  half  to  the  parson. 
The  surgeon  drew  his  knowledge  from  those  inestim- 
able fountains,  called  The  Attorney's  Pocket  Com- 
panion, and  Mr.  Jacob's  Law-Tables ;  Barnabas 
trusted  entirely  to  Wood's  Institutes.  It  happened 
on  this  occasion,  as  was  pretty  frequently  the  case, 
that  these  two  learned  men  differed  about  the  suffi- 
ciency of  evidence ;  the  doctor  being  of  opinion  that 
the  maid's  oath  would  convict  the  prisoner  without 
producing  the  gold  ;  the  parson,  e  contra,  toUs  viri' 
[86] 


VANITY 

bus.  To  display  their  parts,  therefore,  before  the 
justice  and  the  parish,  was  the  sole  motive  which  we 
can  discover  to  this  zeal  which  both  of  them  pretended 
to  have  for  publick  justice. 

O  Vanity !  how  little  is  thy  force  acknowledged,  or 
thy  operations  discerned  !  How  wantonly  dost  thou 
deceive  mankind  under  different  disguises !  Some- 
times thou  dost  wear  the  face  of  pity,  sometimes  of 
generosity :  nay,  thou  hast  the  assurance  even  to  put 
on  those  glorious  ornaments  ^^hich  belong  only  to 
heroic  virtue.  Thou  odious,  deformed  monster ! 
whom  priests  have  railed  at,  philosophers  despised, 
and  poets  ridiculed  ;  is  there  a  wretch  so  abandoned 
as  to  own  thee  for  an  acquaintance  in  publick  ?  —  yet, 
how  few  ^vill  refuse  to  enjoy  thee  in  private  ?  nay, 
thou  art  the  pursuit  of  most  men  through  their  lives. 
The  greatest  villainies  are  daily  practised  to  please 
thee ;  nor  is  the  meanest  thief  below,  or  the  gi-eatest 
hero  above,  thy  notice.  Thy  embraces  are  often  the 
sole  aim  and  sole  reward  of  the  private  robbery  and 
the  plundered  province.  It  is  to  pamper  up  thee, 
thou  harlot,  that  we  attempt  to  withdraw  from 
others  what  we  do  not  want,  or  to  withhold  from 
them  what  they  do.  All  our  passions  are  thy  slaves. 
Avarice  itself  is  often  no  more  than  thy  handmaid, 
and  even  Lust  thy  pimp.  The  bully  Fear,  like  a 
coward,  flies  before  thee,  and  Joy  and  Grief  hide 
their  heads  in  thy  presence. 
[87] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

I  know  thou  wilt  think  that  whilst  I  abuse  thee 
I  court  thee,  and  that  thy  love  hath  inspired  me  to 
write  this  sarcastical  panegyric  on  thee ;  but  thou 
art  deceived  :  I  value  thee  not  of  a  farthing ;  nor 
will  it  give  rae  any  pain  if  thou  shouldst  prevail  on 
the  reader  to  censure  this  digression  as  arrant  non- 
sense ;  for  know,  to  thy  confusion,  that  I  have  intro- 
duced thee  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  lengthen 
out  a  short  chapter,  and  so  I  return  to  my  history. 


[88] 


CHAPTER    SIXTEEN 

THE  ESCAPE  OF  THE  TRIEF.  MR.  ADAMSES  DISAPPOINT- 
MENT. THE  ARBIVAI.  OF  TWO  VERY  EXTRAORDI- 
NARY PERSONAGES,  AND  THE  IKTRODUCTION  OF 
PARSON    ADAMS   TO    PARSON    BARNABAS. 

ARNABAS  and  the  surgeon,  being  re- 
turned, as  we  have  said,  to  t[\e  inn,  in 
order  to  convey  the  thief  before  the  jus- 
tice, were  greatly  concerned  to  find  a 
small  accident  had  happened,  which  somewhat  dis- 
concerted them ;  and  this  was  no  other  than  the 
thief s  escape,  who  had  modestly  withdi'awn  him- 
self by  night,  declining  all  ostentation,  and  not 
chusing,  in  imitation  of  some  great  men,  to  dis- 
tinguish himself  at  the  expense  of  being  pointed  at. 

When  the  company  had  retired  the  evening  before, 
the  thief  was  detained  in  a  room  where  the  constable, 
and  one  of  the  young  fellows  who  took  him,  were 
planted  as  his  guard.  About  the  second  watch  a 
general  complaint  of  drought  was  made,  both  by  the 
prisoner  and  his  keepers.  Among  whom  it  was  at  last 
agreed  that  the  constable  should  remain  on  duty,  and 
the  young  fellow  call  up  the  tapster ;  in  which  dis- 
[89] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

position  the  latter  apprehended  not  the  least  danger, 
as  the  constable  was  well  armed,  and  could  besides 
easily  summon  him  back  to  his  assistance,  if  the 
prisoner  made  the  least  attempt  to  gain  his  liberty. 

The  young  fellow  had  not  long  left  the  room  before 
it  came  into  the  constable's  head  that  the  prisoner 
nn'ght  leap  on  him  by  surprize,  and,  thereby  prevent- 
ing him  of  the  use  of  his  weapons,  especially  the  long 
staff  in  which  he  chiefly  confided,  might  reduce  the 
success  of  a  struggle  to  an  equal  chance.  He  wisely, 
therefore,  to  prevent  this  inconvenience,  slipt  out  of 
the  room  himself,  and  locked  the  door,  waiting  with- 
out with  his  staff  in  his  hand,  ready  lifted  to  fell  the 
unhappy  prisoner,  if  by  ill  fortune  he  should  attempt 
to  break  out. 

But  human  life,  as  hath  been  discovered  by  some 
great  man  or  other  (for  I  would  by  no  means  be  un- 
derstood to  affect  the  honour  of  making  any  such  dis- 
covery), very  much  resembles  a  game  at  chess  ;  for  as 
in  the  latter,  while  a  gamester  is  too  attentive  to 
secure  himself  very  strongly  on  one  side  the  board, 
he  is  apt  to  leave  an  unguarded  opening  on  the  other ; 
so  doth  it  often  happen  in  life,  and  so  did  it  happen 
on  this  occasion  ;  for  whilst  the  cautious  constable 
with  such  wonderful  sagacity  had  possessed  himself 
of  the  door,  he  most  unhappily  forgot  the  window. 

The  thief,  who  played  on  the  other  side,  no  sooner 
perceived  this  opening  than  he  began  to  move  that 
[90] 


THE    THIEF'S    ESCAPE 

way  ;  and,  finding  the  passage  easy,  he  took  with  him 
the  young  fellow's  hat,  and  without  any  ceremony 
stepped  into  the  street  and  made  the  best  of  his 
way. 

The  young  fellow,  returning  with  a  double  mug  of 
strong  beer,  was  a  little  surprized  to  find  the  con- 
stable at  the  door  ;  but  much  more  so  when,  the  door 
being  opened,  he  perceived  the  prisoner  had  made 
his  escape,  and  which  way.  He  threw  down  the  beer, 
and,  without  uttering  anything  to  the  constable 
except  a  hearty  curse  or  two,  he  nimbly  leapt  out  of 
the  window,  and  went  again  in  pursuit  of  his  prey, 
being  verv  unwilling  to  lose  the  reward  which  he  had 
assured  himself  of. 

The  constable  hath  not  been  discharged  of  suspi- 
cion on  this  account ;  it  hath  been  said  that,  not 
being  concerned  in  the  taking  the  thief,  he  could 
not  have  been  entitled  to  any  part  of  the  reward  if 
he  had  been  convicted ;  that  the  thief  had  several 
guineas  in  his  pocket ;  that  it  was  very  unlikely  he 
should  have  been  guilty  of  such  an  oversight ;  that 
his  pretence  for  leaving  the  room  was  absurd ;  that 
it  was  his  constant  maxim,  that  a  wise  man  never 
refused  money  on  any  conditions  ;  that  at  every  elec- 
tion he  always  had  sold  his  vote  to  both  parties,  &c. 

But,  notwithstanding  these  and  many  other  such 
allegations,  I  am  sufficiently  convinced  of  his  inno- 
cence ;  having  been  positively  assured  of  it  bv  those 
[91] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

who  received  their  informations  from  his  own  mouth ; 
which,  in  the  opinion  of  some  modems,  is  the  best 
and  indeed  only  evidence. 

All  the  family  were  now  up,  and  with  many  others 
assembled  in  the  kitchen,  where  Mr.  Tow-wouse  was 
in  some  tribulation  ;  the  surgeon  having  declared 
that  by  law  he  was  liable  to  be  indicted  for  the 
thiefs  escape,  as  it  was  out  of  his  house ;  he  was  a 
little  comforted,  however,  by  Mr.  Barnabas''s  opinion, 
that  as  the  escape  was  by  night  the  indictment  would 
not  lie. 

Mrs.  Tow-wouse  delivered  herself  in  the  following 
words  :  "  Sure  never  was  such  a  fool  as  my  husband  ; 
would  any  other  person  living  have  left  a  man  in  the 
custody  of  such  a  drunken  drowsy  blockhead  as  Tom 
Suckbribe  ?  "  (which  v,as  the  constable*'s  name) ;  "  and 
if  he  could  be  indicted  without  any  harm  to  his  wife 
and  children,  I  should  be  glad  of  it."  (Then  the 
bell  rung  in  Joseph''s  room.)  "  Why  Betty,  John, 
Chamberlain,  where  tiie  devil  are  you  all  ?  Have  you 
no  ears,  or  no  conscience,  not  to  tend  the  sick  better  ? 
See  what  the  gentleman  wants.  Why  don''t  you  go 
yourself,  Mr.  Tow-wouse  ?  But  any  one  may  die  for 
you;  you  have  no  more  feeling  than  a  deal  board. 
If  a  man  lived  a  fortnight  in  your  house  without 
spending  a  penny,  you  would  never  put  him  in  mind 
of  it.  See  whether  he  drinks  tea  or  coffee  for  break- 
fast.^' "  Yes,  my  dear,"  cried  Tow-wouse.  She  then 
[92] 


MR.    ADAMS'S    STRATAGEM 

asked  the  doctor  and  Mr.  Baniabas  what  morning's 
draught  they  chose,  who  answered,  they  had  a  pot  of 
cyder-and  at  the  fire ;  which  we  will  leave  them  merry 
over,  and  return  to  Joseph. 

He  had  rose  pretty  early  this  morning ;  but, 
though  his  wounds  were  far  from  thi'eatening  any 
danger,  he  was  so  sore  with  the  bruises,  that  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  think  of  undertaking  a  journey 
yet ;  Mr.  Adams,  therefore,  whose  stock  was  visibly 
decreased  with  the  expenses  of  supper  and  breakfast, 
and  which  could  not  survive  that  day's  scoring, 
began  to  consider  how  it  was  possible  to  recruit  it. 
At  last  he  cried,  "  He  had  luckily  hit  on  a  sure 
method,  and,  though  it  would  oblige  him  to  return 
himself  home  together  with  Joseph,  it  mattered  not 
much."  He  then  sent  for  Tow-wouse,  and,  taking 
him  into  another  room,  told  him  "he  wanted  to 
borrow  three  guineas,  for  which  he  would  put  ample 
security  into  his  hands."  Tow-wouse,  who  expected 
a  watch,  or  ring,  or  something  of  double  the  value, 
answered,  "  He  believed  he  could  furnish  him." 
Upon  which  Adams,  pointing  to  his  saddle-bag,  told 
him,  with  a  face  and  voice  full  of  solemnity,  "  that 
there  were  in  that  bag  no  less  than  nine  volumes  of 
manuscript  sermons,  as  well  worth  a  hundred  pounds 
as  a  shilling  was  worth  twelve  pence,  and  that  he 
would  deposit  one  of  the  volumes  in  his  hands  by  way 
of  pledge  ;  not  doubting  but  that  he  would  have  the 
[93] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

honesty  to  return  it  on  his  repayment  of  the  money  ; 
for  otherwise  he  must  be  a  very  great  loser,  seeing 
that  every  volume  would  at  least  bring  him  ten 
pounds,  as  he  had  been  informed  by  a  neighbouring 
clergyman  in  the  countiy ;  for,"  said  he,  "  as  to  my 
own  part,  having  never  yet  dealt  in  printing,  I  do 
not  pretend  to  ascertain  the  exact  value  of  such 
things." 

Tow-wouse,  who  was  a  little  surprized  at  the  pawn, 
said  (  and  not  without  some  truth  ),  "  Tliat  he  was 
no  judge  of  the  price  of  such  kind  of  goods  ;  and  as 
for  money,  he  really  was  very  short."  Adams 
answered,  "  Certainly  he  would  not  scruple  to  lend 
him  three  guineas  on  what  was  undoubtedly  worth 
at  least  ten."  The  landlord  replied,  "  He  did  not 
believe  he  had  so  much  money  in  the  house,  and 
besides,  he  was  to  make  up  a  sum.  He  was  very 
confident  the  books  Avere  of  much  higher  value,  and 
heartily  sorry  it  did  not  suit  him."  He  then  cried 
out,  "  Coming  sir ! "  though  nobody  called ;  and 
ran  downstairs  without  any  fear  of  breaking  his 
neck. 

Poor  Adams  was  extremely  dejected  at  this  dis- 
appointment, nor  knew  he  what  further  stratagem 
to  try.  He  immediately  applied  to  his  pipe,  his 
constant  friend  and  comfort  in  his  afflictions ;  and, 
leaning  over  the  rails,  he  devoted  himself  to  medita- 
tion, assisted  by  the  inspiring  fumes  of  tobacco. 

[9*] 


NEW    ARRIVALS 

He  had  on  a  nightcap  diawn  over  his  wig,  and  a 
short  greatcoat,  which  half  co\ered  his  cassock  —  a 
dress  which,  added  to  something  comical  enough  in 
his  countenance,  composed  a  figure  likely  to  attract 
the  eyes  of  those  who  were  not  over  given  to  obser- 
vation. 

Whilst  he  was  smoaking  his  pipe  in  this  posture, 
a  coach  and  six,  with  a  numerous  attendance,  drove 
into  the  inn.  There  alighted  from  the  coach  a 
young  fellow  and  a  brace  of  pointers,  after  which 
another  young  fellow  leapt  from  the  box,  and  shook 
the  former  by  the  hand ;  and  both,  together  with 
the  dogs,  were  instantly  conducted  by  Mr.  Tow- 
wouse  into  an  apartment ;  whither  as  they  passed, 
they  entei-tained  themselves  with  the  following  short 
facetious  dialogue :  — 

"  You  are  a  pretty  fellow  for  a  coachman.  Jack ! " 
says  he  from  the  coach  ;  "  you  had  almost  overturned 
us  just  now."  —  "  Pox  take  you  ! "  says  the  coachman  ; 
"  if  I  had  only  broke  your  neck,  it  would  have  been 
saving  somebody  else  the  trouble  ;  but  I  should  have 
been  sorry  for  the  pointers."  —  "  Why,  you  son  of  a 
b — ,"  answered  the  other,  "if  nobody  could  shoot 
better  than  you,  the  pointers  would  be  of  no  use,''  — 
"  D — n  me,"  says  the  coachman,  "  I  will  shoot  with 
you  five  guineas  a  shot."  —  "  You  be  hanged,"  says 
the  other ;  "  for  five  guineas  you  shall  shoot  at  my 
a—." — "Done,"  says  the  coachman;  "I'll  pepper 
[96] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

you  better  than  ever  you  was  peppered  by  Jenny 
Bouncer.*"  —  "  Pepper  your  grandmother,""  says  the 
other :  "  Here 's  Tow-wouse  will  let  you  shoot  at 
him  for  a  shilling  a  time.""  —  "I  know  his  honour 
better,''  cries  Tow-wouse ;  "  I  never  saw  a  surer 
shot  at  a  partridge.  Every  man  misses  now  and 
then ;  but  if  I  could  shoot  half  as  well  as  his 
honour,  I  would  desire  no  better  livelihood  than  I 
could  get  by  my  gun.""  — "  Pox  on  you,"  said  the 
coachman,  "  you  demolish  more  game  now  than  your 
head  ""s  worth.  There 's  a  bitch,  Tow-wouse :  by 
G —  she  never  blinked ^  a  bird  in  her  life."  —  "I 
have  a  puppy,  not  a  year  old,  shall  hunt  with  her 
for  a  hundred,"  cries  the  other  gentleman.  —  "  Done," 
says  the  coachman :  "but  you  will  be  pox"'d  before 
you  make  the  bett."  —  "  If  3'ou  have  a  mind  for  a 
bett,"  cries  the  coachman,  "  I  will  match  my  spotted 
dog  with  your  white  bitch  for  a  hundred,  play  or 
pay."  —  "  Done,"  says  the  other  :  "  and  I  '11  run 
Baldface  against  Slouch  with  you  for  another."  — 
"  No,"  cries  he  from  the  box  ;  "  but  I  '11  venture  Miss 
Jenny  against  Baldface,  or  Hannibal  either."  —  "  Go 
to  the  devil,"  cries  he  from  the  coach :  "  I  will  make 
every  bett  your  own  way,  to  be  sure !  I  will  match 
Hannibal  with  Slouch  for  a  thousand,  if  you  dare ; 
and  I  say  done  first." 

1  To  blink  is  a  term  used  to  signify  the  dog's  passing  by 
a  bird  without  pointing  at  it. 

[96] 


THE    TWO    CLERGYMEN 

They  were  now  amved  ;  and  the  reader  will  be 
very  contented  to  leave  them,  and  repair  to  the 
kitchen ;  where  Barnabas,  the  surgeon,  and  an  excise- 
man were  smoaking  tlieir  pipes  over  some  cyder- 
and ;  and  where  the  servants,  who  attended  the  two 
noble  gentlemen  we  have  just  seen  alight,  were  now 
arrived. 

*'  Tom,"  cries  one  of  the  footmen,  "  there 's  parson 
Adams  smoaking  his  pipe  in  the  gallery."  — "  Ye%' 
says  Tom ;  "  I  pulled  off  my  hat  to  him,  and  the 
parson  spoke  to  me." 

"  Is  the  gentleman  a  clergyman,  then  ? "  says 
Barnabas  (  for  his  cassock  had  been  tied  up  when  he 
arrived  ).  "  Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  footman ;  "  and 
one  there  be  but  few  like." —  "  Aye,"  said  Barnabas  ; 
"if  I  had  known  it  sooner,  I  should  have  desired  his 
company  ;  I  would  always  shew  a  proper  respect  for 
the  cloth :  but  what  say  you,  doctor,  shall  we 
adjourn  into  a  room,  and  invite  him  to  take  part 
of  a  bowl   of  punch  ? " 

This  proposal  was  immediately  agreed  to  and  exe- 
cuted ;  and  parson  Adams  accepting  the  invitation, 
much  civility  passed  between  the  two  clergymen,  who 
both  declared  the  great  honour  they  had  for  tlie 
cloth.  Tliey  had  not  been  long  together  before  they 
entered  into  a  discourse  on  small  tithes,  which  con- 
tinued a  full  hour,  without  the  doctor  or  exciseman's 
having  one  opportunity  to  offer  a  word. 

[  9'  1 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

It  was  then  proposed  to  begin  a  general  conversa- 
tion, and  the  exciseman  opened  on  foreign  affairs; 
but  a  word  unluckily  dropping  from  one  of  them 
introduced  a  dissertation  on  the  hardships  suffered 
by  the  inferior  clergy  ;  which,  after  a  long  duration, 
concluded  with  bringing  the  nine  volumes  of  sermons 
on  the  carpet. 

Barnabas  greatly  discouraged  poor  Adams ;  he 
said,  "  The  age  was  so  wicked,  that  nobody  read 
sermons  :  would  you  think  it,  Mr.  Adams  ?  "  said  lie, 
"  I  once  intended  to  print  a  volume  of  sermons  my- 
self, and  they  had  the  approbation  of  two  or  tliree 
bishops  ;  but  what  do  you  think  a  bookseller  offered 
me  ?  "  —  "  Twelve  guineas  perhaps,"  cried  Adams. 
—  "Not  twelve  pence,  I  assure  you,"  answered 
Barnabas  :  "  nay,  the  dog  refused  me  a  Concordance 
in  exchange.  At  last  I  offered  to  give  him  the 
printing  them,  for  the  sake  of  dedicating  them  to 
that  very  gentleman  who  just  now  drove  his  own 
coach  into  the  inn ;  and,  I  assure  you,  he  had  the 
impudence  to  refuse  my  offer ;  by  which  means  I  lost 
a  good  living,  that  was  afterwards  given  away  in 
exchange  for  a  pointer,  to  one  who  —  but  I  will  not 
say  anything  against  the  cloth.  So  you  may  guess, 
Mr.  Adams,  what  you  are  to  expect ;  for  if  sermons 
would  have  gone  down,  I  believe  —  I  will  not  be 
vain  ;  but  to  be  concise  with  you,  three  bishops  said 
they  were  the  best  that  ever  were  writ :  but  indeed 
[98j 


VALUE    OF    SERMONS 

there  are  a  pretty  moderate  number  printed  already, 
and  not  all  sold  yef  —  "  Pray,  sir,"  said  Adams, 
"  to  what  do  you  think  the  numbers  may  amount  ? "" 
—  "  Sir,"  answered  Barnabas,  "  a  bookseller  told  me, 
he  believed  five  thousand  volumes  at  least."  —  "  Five 
thousand  ?  "  quoth  the  surgeon  :  "  WTiat  can  they  be 
writ  upon  ?  I  remember  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  used 
to  read  one  Tillotson''s  sermons  ;  and,  I  am  sure,  if 
a  man  practised  half  so  much  as  is  in  one  of  those 
sermons,  he  will  go  to  heaven."  —  "  Doctor,"  cried 
Barnabas,  "  you  have  a  prophane  way  of  talking,  for 
which  I  must  reprove  you.  A  man  can  never  have 
his  duty  too  frequently  inculcated  into  him.  And 
as  for  Tillotson,  to  be  sure  he  was  a  good  writer,  and 
said  things  very  well ;  but  comparisons  are  odious ; 

another  man  may  write  as  well  as  he 1  believe 

there  are  some  of  my  sermons," and  then  he 

applied  the  candle  to  his  pipe.  — "  And  I  believe 
there  are  some  of  my  discourses,"  cries  Adams,  "which 
the  bishops  would  not  think  totally  unworthy  of 
being  printed ;  and  I  have  been  informed  I  might 
procure  a  very  large  sum  (indeed  an  immense  one) 
on  them." — "I  doubt  that,"  answered  Barnabas: 
"however,  if  you  desire  to  make  some  money  of 
them,  perhaps  you  may  sell  them  by  advertising  the 
manuscript  sermons  of  a  clergyman  lately  deceased, 
all  warranted  originals,  and  never  printed.  And 
now  I  think  of  it,  I  should  be  obliged  to  you,  if 
[99] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

there  be  ever  a  funeral  one  among  them,  to  lend  it 
me  ;  for  I  am  this  very  day  to  preach  a  funeral 
sermon,  for  which  I  have  not  penned  a  line,  though 
I  am  to  have  a  double  price.""  —  Adams  answered, 
"  He  had  but  one,  which  he  feared  would  not  serve 
his  purpose,  being  sacred  to  the  memory  of  a  magis- 
trate, who  had  exerted  himself  very  singularly  in  the 
preservation  of  the  morality  of  his  neighbours,  inso- 
much that  he  had  neither  alehouse  nor  lewd  woman 
in  the  parish  where  he  lived.""  —  "  No,'*  replied  Barna- 
bas, "  that  will  not  do  quite  so  well ;  for  the  deceased, 
upon  whose  virtues  I  am  to  harangue,  was  a  little 
too  much  addicted  to  hquor,  and  publickly  kept  a 

mistress. 1  believe  I  must  take  a  common  sermon, 

and  trust  to  my  memory  to  introduce  something 
handsome  on  him."  —  "  To  your  invention  rather," 
said  the  doctor :  "  your  memory  will  be  apter  to  put 
you  out ;  for  no  man  living  remembers  anything  good 
of  him." 

With  such  kind  of  spiritual  discourse,  they  emptied 
the  bowl  of  punch,  paid  their  reckoning,  and  sepa- 
rated :  Adams  and  the  doctor  went  up  to  Joseph, 
parson  Barnabas  departed  to  celebrate  the  aforesaid 
deceased,  and  the  exciseman  descended  into  the 
cellar  to  gauge  the  vessels. 

Joseph  was  now  ready  to  sit  do\vn  to  a  loin  of 
mutton,  and  waited  for  Mr.  Adams,  when  he  and  the 
doctor  came  in.  The  doctor,  having  felt  his  pulse 
[100] 


JOSEPH'S    RECOVERY 

and  examined  his  wounds,  declared  him  much  better, 
which  he  imputed  to  that  sanative  soporiferous 
draught,  a  medicine  "  whose  virtues,'*  he  said,  *'  were 
never  to  be  sufficiently  extolled."  And  great  indeed 
they  must  be,  if  Joseph  was  so  much  indebted  to 
them  as  the  doctor  imagined ;  since  nothing  more 
than  those  effluvia  which  escaped  the  cork  could 
have  contributed  to  his  recovery  ;  for  the  medicine 
had  stood  untouched  in  the  window  ever  since  its 
arrival, 

Joseph  passed  that  day,  and  the  three  following, 
with  his  friend  Adams,  in  which  nothing  so  remark- 
able happened  as  the  swift  progress  of  his  recovery. 
As  he  had  an  excellent  habit  of  body,  his  wounds 
were  now  almost  healed ;  and  his  bruises  gave  him  so 
little  uneasiness,  that  he  pressed  Mr.  Adams  to  let 
him  depart ;  told  him  he  should  never  be  able  to 
return  sufficient  thanks  for  all  his  favours,  but  begged 
that  he  might  no  longer  delay  his  journey  to 
London. 

Adams,  notwithstanding  the  ignorance,  as  he  con- 
ceived it,  of  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  and  the  envy  (for  such 
he  thought  it)  of  Mr.  Barnabas,  had  great  expecta- 
tions from  his  sermons  :  seeing  therefore  Joseph  in  so 
good  a  way,  he  told  him  he  would  agree  to  his  set- 
ting out  the  next  morning  in  the  stage-coach,  that  he 
believed  he  should  have  sufficient,  after  the  reckoning 
paid,  to  procure  him  one  day's  conveyance  in  it,  and 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

afterwards  he  would  be  able  to  get  on  on  foot,  or  might 
be  favoured  with  a  lift  in  some  neighbour's  waggon, 
especially  as  there  was  then  to  be  a  fair  in  the  town 
whither  the  coach  would  carry  him,  to  which  num- 
bei*s  from  his  parish  resorted  —  And  as  to  himself, 
he  agreed  to  proceed  to  the  great  city. 

They  were  now  walking  in  the  inn-yard,  when  a 
fat,  fair,  short  person  rode  in,  and,  alighting  from 
his  horse,  went  directly  up  to  Barnabas,  who  was 
smoaking  his  pipe  on  a  bench.  The  parson  and 
the  stranger  shook  one  another  very  lovingly  by  the 
hand,  and  went  into  a  room  together. 

The  evening  now  coming  on,  Joseph  retired  to  his 
chamber,  whither  the  good  Adams  accompanied  him, 
and  took  this  opportunity  to  expatiate  on  the  great 
mercies  God  had  lately  shown  him,  of  which  he 
ought  not  only  to  have  the  deepest  inward  sense,  but 
likewise  to  express  outward  thankfulness  for  them. 
They  therefore  fell  both  on  their  knees,  and  spent  a 
considerable  time  in  prayer  and  thanksgiving. 

They  had  just  finished  when  Betty  came  in  and 
told  Mr.  Adams  Mr.  Barnabas  desired  to  speak  to 
him  on  some  business  of  consequence  below-stairs. 
Joseph  desired,  if  it  was  likely  to  detain  him  long, 
he  would  let  him  know  it,  that  he  might  go  to  bed, 
which  Adams  promised,  and  in  that  case  they  wished 
one  another  good-night. 

[  102  ] 


CHAPTER    SEVENTEEN 

A  FLEASANT  DISCOURSE  BETWEEN'  THE  TWO  PARSONS  AND 
THE  BOOKSELLER,  WHICH  WAS  BROKE  OFF  BY  AS 
UNLUCKY  ACCIDENT  HAPPENING  IN  THE  INN,  WHICH 
PRODUCED  A  DIALOGLTS  BET\\'EEN  MRS.  TOW-WOUSE 
AND  HER  MAID  OF  NO  GENTLE  KIND. 

]A  S  soon  as  Adams  came  into  the  room,  Mr. 
/^L  Barnabas  introduced  him  to  the  stranger, 
/  ■  ^^  who  was,  he  told  him,  a  bookseller,  and 
"^"  "^^  would  be  as  likely  to  deal  with  him  for 
his  sermons  as  any  man  whatever.  Adams,  saluting 
the  stranger,  answered  Barnabas,  that  he  was  very 
much  obliged  to  him ;  that  nothing  could  be  more 
convenient,  for  he  had  no  other  business  to  die  great 
city,  and  was  heartily  desirous  of  returning  with  the 
young  man,  who  was  just  recovered  of  his  misfor- 
tune. He  then  snapt  his  fingers  (  as  was  usual  with 
him),  and  took  two  or  three  turns  about  the  room 
in  an  extasy.  And  to  induce  the  bookseller  to  be 
as  expeditious  as  possible,  as  likewise  to  offer  him  a 
better  price  for  his  commodity,  he  assured  them  their 
meeting  was  extremely  lucky  to  himself;  for  that  he 
had  the  most  pressing  occasion  for  money  at  that 
[  103  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

time,  his  own  being  almost  spent,  and  having  a 
friend  then  in  the  same  inn,  who  was  just  recovered 
ft'om  some  wounds  he  had  received  from  robbers, 
and  was  in  a  most  indigent  condition.  "So  that 
nothing,^  says  he,  "could  be  so  opportune  for  the 
supplying  both  our  necessities  as  my  making  an 
immediate  bargain  with  you." 

As  soon  as  he  had  seated  himself,  the  stranger 
began  in  these  words  :  "  Sir,  I  do  not  care  absolutely 
to  deny  engaging  in  what  my  friend  Mr.  Barnabas 
recommends ;  but  sermons  are  mere  drugs.  The 
trade  is  so  vastly  stocked  with  them,  that  really, 
unless  they  come  out  with  the  name  of  Whitefield  or 
Wesley,  or  some  other  such  great  man,  as  a  bishop, 
or  those  sort  of  people,  I  don't  care  to  touch  ;  unless 
now  it  was  a  sermon  preached  on  the  30th  of 
Januaiy  ;  or  we  could  say  in  the  title-page,  published 
at  the  earnest  request  of  the  congregation,  or  the 
inhabitants ;  but,  truly,  for  a  dry  piece  of  sermons, 
I  had  rather  be  excused  ;  especially  as  my  hands  are 
so  full  at  present.  However,  sir,  as  Mr.  Barnabas 
mentioned  them  to  me,  I  will,  if  you  please,  take 
the  manuscript  with  me  to  town,  and  send  you  my 
opinion  of  it  in  a  very  short  time." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Adams,  "  if  you  desire  it,  I  will  read 
two  or  three  discourses  as  a  specimen."  This 
Barnabas,  who  loved  sermons  no  better  than  a  gro- 
cer doth  figs,  immediately  objected  to,  and  advised 
[  104  ] 


THE    BOOKSELLER 

Adams  to  let  the  bookseller  have  his  sermons  :  telling 
him,  "  If  he  gave  him  a  direction,  he  might  be  cer- 
tain of  a  speedy  answer  ;"  adding,  he  need  not 
scruple  trusting  them  in  his  possession.  "  No,"  said 
the  bookseller,  "  if  it  was  a  play  that  had  been  acted 
twenty  nights  together,  I  believe  it  would  be  safe." 

Adams  did  not  at  all  relish  the  last  expression ; 
he  said  "  he  was  sorry  to  hear  sermons  compared  to 
plays."  —  "  Not  by  me,  I  assure  you,"  cried  the  book- 
seller, "  though  I  don't  know  whether  the  licensing 
act  may  not  shortly  bring  them  to  the  same  footing ; 
but  I  have  formerly  known  a  hundred  guineas  given 
for  a  play."  —  "  More  shame  for  those  who  gave  it," 
cried  Barnabas.  —  "  Why  so  ?  "  said  the  bookseller, 
"  for  they  got  hundreds  by  it."  —  "  But  is  there  no 
difference  between  conveying  good  or  ill  instructions 
to  mankind  ?  "  said  Adams  :  "  Would  not  an  honest 
mind  rather  lose  money  by  the  one,  than  gain  it  by 
the  other  .^ "  —  "  If  you  can  find  any  such,  I  will  not 
be  their  hindrance,"  answered  the  bookseller ;  "  but 
I  think  those  persons  wlio  get  by  preaching  sernions 
are  the  properest  to  lose  by  printing  them  :  for  my 
part,  the  copy  that  sells  best  will  be  always  the  best 
copy  in  my  opinion ;  I  am  no  enemy  to  sermons,  but 
because  they  don't  sell :  for  I  would  as  soon  print 
one  of  Whitefield's  as  any  farce  whatever." 

"  Whoever  prints  such  heterodox  stuff  ought  to 
be  hanged,"  says  Barnabas.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  turning 
[105] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

to  Adams,  "  this  fellow's  writings  (I  know  not  whether 
you  have  seen  tliem)  are  levelled  at  the  clergy.  He 
would  reduce  us  to  the  example  of  the  primitive 
ages,  forsooth !  and  would  insinuate  to  the  people 
that  a  clergyman  ought  to  be  always  preaching  and 
praying.  He  pretends  to  understand  the  Scripture 
literally ;  and  would  make  mankind  believe  that  the 
poverty  and  low  estate  which  was  recommended  to 
the  Church  in  its  infancy,  and  was  only  temporary 
doctrine  adapted  to  her  under  persecution,  was  to  be 
preserved  in  her  flourishing  and  established  state. 
Sir,  the  principles  of  Toland,  Woolston,  and  all  the 
freethinkers,  are  not  calculated  to  do  half  the  mis- 
chief, as  those  professed  by  this  fellow  and  his 
followers.'" 

"..^,'"  answered  Adams,  "if  Mr,  Whitefield  had 
earned  his  doctrine  no  farther  than  you  mention,  I 
should  have  remained,  as  I  once  was,  his  well-wisher. 
I  am,  myself,  as  great  an  enemy  to  the  luxury  and 
splendour  of  the  clergy  as  he  can  be.  I  do  not, 
more  than  he,  by  the  flourishing  estate  of  the  Church, 
understand  the  palaces,  equipages,  dress,  furniture, 
rich  dainties,  and  vast  fortunes,  of  her  ministers. 
Surely  those  things,  which  savour  so  strongly  of  this 
world,  become  not  the  servants  of  one  who  professed 
His  kingdom  was  not  of  it.  \But  when  he  began  to 
call  nonsense  and  enthusiasm  to  his  aid,  and  set  up 
the  detestable  doctrine  of  faith  against  good  works, 
[  106  ] 


FAITH    AND    WORKS 

I  was  his  friend  no  longer  ;  for  surely  that  doctrine 
was  coined  in  hell ;  and  one  would  think  none  but 
the  devil  himself  could  have  the  confidence  to  preach 
it.  For  can  anything  1^  more  derogatorv  to  the 
honour  of  God  than  for  men  to  imagine  that  the 
all-wise  Being  will  hereafter  say  to  the  good  and 
virtuous,  *  Notwithstanding  the  purity  of  thv  life, 
notwithstanding  that  constant  rule  of  virtue  and 
goodness  in  which  you  walked  upon  earth,  still,  as 
thou  didst  not  believe  ever}- thing  in  the  true  ortho- 
dox manner,  thy  want  of  faith  shall  condemn  tliee  '  ? 
Or,  on  the  other  side,  can  any  doctrine  have  a  more 
pernicious  influence  on  society,  than  a  pei'suasion 
that  it  will  be  a  good  plea  for  the  villain  at  the  last 
day^ ' Lord,  it  is  true  I  never  obeyed  one  of  thv 
commandments,  yet  punish  me  not,  for  I  believe 
them  all  \'' "  —  "I  suppose,  sir,"  said  the  bookseller, 
"your  sermons  are  of  a  different  kind."  —  "Aye, 
sir,"  said  Adams ;  "  the  contrary,  I  thank  Heaven, 
is  inculcated  in  almost  every  page,  or  I  should  belye 
my  own  opinion,  which  hath  always  been,  that  a 
virtuous  and  good  Turk,  or  heathen,  are  more  ac- 
ceptable in  the  sight  of  their  Creator  than  a  vicious 
and  wicked  Christian,  though  his  faith  was  as  per- 
fectly orthodox  as  St.  Paul's  himself."  —  "I  wish 
you  success,"  says  the  bookseller,  "  but  must  beg  to 
be  excused,  as  my  hands  are  so  very  full  at  present ; 
and,  indeed,  I  am  afraid  vou  will  find  a  backwardness 
[107j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

in  the  trade  to  engage  in  a  book  which  the  clergy 
would  be  certain  to  cry  down."  —  "God  forbid," 
says  Adams,  "aiiy  books  should  be  propagated 
which  the  clergy  would  cry  down  ;  but  if  you  mean 
by  the  clergy,  some  few  designing  factious  men,  who 
have  it  at  heart  to  establish  some  favourite  schemes 
at  the  price  of  the  liberty  of  mankind,  and  the  very 
essence  of  religion,  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  such 
persons  to  decry  any  book  they  please ;  witness  that 
excellent  book  called,  '  A  Plain  Account  of  the 
Nature  and  End  of  the  Sacrament ;  "*  a  book  written 
(if  I  may  venture  on  the  expression)  with  the  pen  of 
an  angel,  and  calculated  to  restore  the  true  use  of 
Christianity,  and  of  that  sacred  institution  ;  for  what 
could  tend  more  to  the  noble  purposes  of  religion 
than  frequent  chearful  meetings  among  the  members 
of  a  society,  in  which  they  should,  in  the  presence 
of  one  another,  and  in  the  service  of  the  Supreme 
Being,  make  promises  of  being  good,  friendly,  and 
benevolent  to  each  other?  Now,  this  excellent 
book  was  attacked  by  a  party,  but  unsuccessfully/' 
At  these  words  Barnabas  fell  a-ringing  with  all  the 
violence  imaginable ;  upon  which  a  servant  attend- 
ing, he  bid  him  "  bring  a  bill  immediately;  for  that 
he  was  in  company,  for  aught  he  knew,  with  the 
devil  himself;  and  he  expected  to  hear  the  Alcoran, 
the  Leviathan,  or  Woolston  commended,  if  he  staid 
a  few  minutes  longer."  Adams  desired,  "  as  he  was 
[108] 


A    VIOLENT    SCENE 

so  much  moved  at  his  mentioning  a  book  which  he 
did  without  apprehending  any  possibihty  of  offence, 
that  he  would  be  so  kind  to  propose  any  objections 
he  had  to  it,  which  he  would  endeavour  to  answer." 

—  "I  propose  objections  !  "  said  Barnabas,  "  I  never 
read  a  syllable  in  any  such  wicked  book ;  I  never 
saw  it  in  my  life,  I  assure  you.""  —  Adams  was  going 
to  answer,  when  a  most  hideous  uproar  began  in  the 
inn.  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  and  Betty, 
all  lifting  up  their  voices  together ;  but  Mrs.  Tow- 
wouse"'s  voice,  like  a  bass  viol  in  a  concert,  was 
clearly  and  distinctly  distinguished  among  the  rest, 
and  was  heard  to  articulate  the  following  sounds : 

—  "  O  you  damn''d  villain  !  is  this  the  return  to  all 
the  care  I  have  taken  of  your  family  ?  This  the 
reward  of  my  virtue  ?  Is  this  the  manner  in  which 
you  behave  to  one  who  brought  you  a  fortune,  and 
preferred  you  to  so  many  matches,  all  your  betters  ? 
To  abuse  my  bed,  my  own  bed,  with  my  own  servant ! 
but  1 11  maul  the  slut,  I  '11  tear  her  nasty  eyes  out ! 
Was  ever  such  a  pitiful  dog,  to  take  up  with  such 
a  mean  trollop?  If  she  had  been  a  gentlewoman, 
like  myself,  it  had  been  some  excuse ;  but  a  beggarly, 
saucy,  dirty  servant-maid.  Get  you  out  of  my 
house,  you  whore.''  To  which  she  added  another 
name,  which  we  do  not  care  to  stain  our  paper  with. 
It  was  a  monosyllable  beginning  with  a  b — ,  and 
indeed  was  the  same  as  if  she  had  pronounced  the 

[109] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

words,  she-dog.  Which  term  we  shall,  to  avoid 
offence,  use  on  this  occasion,  though  indeed  both 
the  mistress  and  maid  uttered  the  above-mentioned 
b — ,  a  word  extremely  disgustful  to  females  of  the 
lower  sort.  Betty  had  borne  all  hitherto  with 
patience,  and  had  uttered  only  lamentations ;  but 
the  last  appellation  stung  her  to  the  quick.  "  I  am 
a  woman  as  well  as  yourself,"  she  roared  out,  "  and 
no  she-dog ;  and  if  I  have  been  a  little  naughty, 
I  am  not  the  first ;  if  I  have  been  no  better 
than  I  should  be,"  cries  she,  sobbing,  *'*  that 's  no 
reason  you  should  call  me  out  of  my  name ;  my 
b-betters  are  wo-rse  than  me."  —  "  Huzzy,  huzzy," 
says  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  "  have  you  the  impudence  to 
answer  me  ?  Did  I  not  catch  vou,  vou  saucv  "  —  and 
then  again  repeated  the  terrible  word  so  odious  to 
female  ears.  "  I  can''t  bear  that  name,"  answered 
Betty :  "  if  I  have  been  wicked,  I  am  to  answer 
for  it  myself  in  the  other  world ;  but  I  have  done 
nothing  that 's  unnatural ;  and  I  will  go  out  of  your 
house  this  moment,  for  I  will  never  be  called  she- 
dog  by  any  mistress  in  England."  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
then  armed  herself  with  the  spit,  but  was  prevented 
from  executing  any  dreadful  purpose  by  Mr.  Adams, 
who  confined  her  arms  with  the  strength  of  a  \^Tist 
which  Hercules  would  not  have  been  ashamed  of. 
Ml-.  Tow-wouse,  being  caught,  as  our  la\\yers  express 
it,  with  the  manner,  and  having  no  defence  to  make, 
[llOj 


COMPOSURE    RESTORED 

very  prudently  withdrew  himself;  and  Betty  com- 
mitted herself  to  the  protection  of  the  hostler,  who, 
though  she  could  not  conceive  him  pleased  with 
what  had  happened,  was,  in  her  opinion,  rather  a 
gentler  beast  than  her  mistress. 

Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  at  the  intercession  of  Mr.  Adams, 
and  finding  the  enemy  vanished,  began  to  compose 
herself,  and  at  length  recovered  the  usual  serenity  of 
her  temper,  in  which  we  will  leave  her,  to  open  to 
the  reader  the  steps  which  led  to  a  catastroplie, 
common  enough,  and  comical  enough  too  perhaps, 
in  modern  history,  yet  often  fatal  to  the  repose  and 
well-being  of  families,  and  the  subject  of  many 
tragedies,  both  in  life  and  on  the  stage. 


[in  J 


CHAPTER    EIGHTEEN 

THE  HISTORY  OF  BETTY  THE  CHAMBERMAID,  AND  AN 
ACCOUNT  OF  WHAT  OCCASIONED  THE  VIOLENT 
SCENE   IN   THE   PRECEDING   CHAPTER. 

BETTY,  who  was  the  occasion  of  all  this 
hurry,  had  some  good  qualities.  She 
had  good-nature,  generosity,  and  com- 
passion, but  unfortunately,  her  constitu- 
tion was  composed  of  those  warm  ingredients  which, 
though  the  purity  of  courts  or  nunneries  might  have 
happily  controuled  them,  were  by  no  means  able  to 
endure  the  ticklish  situation  of  a  chambermaid  at  an 
inn  ;  who  is  daily  liable  to  the  solicitations  of  lovers 
of  all  complexions  ;  to  the  dangerous  addresses  of  fine 
gentlemen  of  the  army,  who  sometimes  are  obliged 
to  reside  with  them  a  whole  year  together ;  and, 
above  all,  are  exposed  to  the  caresses  of  footmen, 
stage-coachmen,  and  drawers ;  all  of  whom  employ 
the  whole  artillery  of  kissing,  flattering,  bribing, 
and  eveiT  other  weapon  which  is  to  be  found  in  the 
whole  armoui-y  of  love,  against  them. 

Betty,  who  was  but  one-and-twenty,  had  now  lived 
three  years  in  this  dangerous  situation,  during  which 
[llSj 


BETTY'S    HISTORY 

she  had  escaped  pretty  well.  An  ensign  of  foot  was 
the  first  person  who  made  an  impression  on  her 
heart ;  he  did  indeed  raise  a  flame  in  her  which  re- 
quired  the   care   of  a    surgeon   to   cool. 

While  she  burnt  for  him,  several  others  burnt  for 
her.  Officers  of  the  army,  young  gentlemen  travel- 
ling the  western  circuit,  inoffensive  squires,  and  some 
of  graver  character,  were  set  a-fire  by  her  charms  ! 

At  length,  having  perfectly  recovered  the  effects  of 
her  first  unhappy  passion,  she  seemed  to  have  vowed 
a  state  of  perpetual  chastity.  She  was  long  deaf  to 
all  the  sufferings  of  her  lovers,  till  one  day,  at  a 
neighbouring  fair,  the  rhetoric  of  John  the  hostler, 
with  a  new  straw  hat  and  a  pint  of  >vine,  made  a 
second   conquest   over  her. 

She  did  not,  however,  feel  any  of  those  flames  on 
this  occasion  which  had  been  the  consequence  of  her 
former  amour ;  nor,  indeed,  those  other  ill  effects 
which  prudent  young  women  very  justly  apprehend 
from  too  absolute  an  indulgence  to  the  pressing  endear- 
ments of  their  lovers.  This  latter,  perhaps,  was  a 
little  owing  to  hei*  not  being  entirely  constant  to 
John,  with  whom  she  permitted  Tom  Whipwell  the 
stage-coachman,  and  now  and  then  a  handsome  young 
traveller,  to  share  her  favours. 

Mr.  Tow-wouse  had  for  some  time  cast  the  lan- 
guishing eyes  of  affection  on  this  young  maiden.  He 
had  laid  hold  on  every  opportunity  of  saying  tender 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

things  to  her,  squeezing  her  by  the  hand,  and  some- 
times kissing  her  lips ;  for,  as  the  violence  of  hia 
passion  had  considerably  abated  to  Mrs.  Tow-wouse, 
so,  like  water,  which  is  stopt  from  its  usual  cunent 
in  one  place,  it  naturally  sought  a  vent  in  another. 
Mrs.  Tow-wouse  is  thought  to  have  perceived  this 
abatement,  and,  probably,  it  added  very  little  to  the 
natural  sweetness  of  her  temper  ;  for  though  she  was 
as  true  to  her  husband  as  the  dial  to  the  sun,  she  was 
rather  more  desirous  of  being  shone  on,  as  being  more 
capable  of  feeling  his  warmth. 

Ever  since  Joseph"'s  arrival,  Betty  had  conceived  an 
extraordinary  liking  to  him,  which  discovered  itself 
more  and  more  as  he  grew  better  and  better;  till 
that  fatal  evening,  when,  as  she  was  warming  his  bed, 
her  passion  grew  to  such  a  height,  and  so  perfectly 
mastered  both  her  modesty  and  her  reason,  that,  after 
many  fruitless  hints  and  sly  insinuations,  she  at  last 
threw  down  the  warming-pan,  and,  embracing  him 
with  great  eageniess,  swore  he  was  the  handsomest 
creature  she  had  ever  seen. 

Joseph,  in  gi-eat  confusion,  leapt  from  her,  and  told 
her  he  was  sorry  to  see  a  young  woman  cast  off  all  re- 
gard to  modesty ;  but  she  had  gone  too  far  to  recede, 
and  grew  so  very  indecent,  that  Joseph  was  obliged, 
contrary  to  his  inclination,  to  use  some  violence  to 
her  ;  and,  taking  her  in  his  arms,  he  shut  her  out  of 
the  room,  and  locked  the  door. 
[114] 


A    CATASTROPHE 

How  ought  man  to  rejoice  that  his  chastity  is  al- 
ways in  his  own  power ;  that,  if  he  hath  sufficient 
strength  of  mind,  he  hath  always  a  competent 
strength  of  body  to  defend  himself,  and  cannot,  like 
a  poor  weak  woman,  be  ravished  against  his  will ! 

Betty  was  in  the  most  violent  agitation  at  this  dis- 
appointment. Rage  and  lust  pulled  her  heart,  as  with 
two  strings,  two  different  ways ;  one  moment  she 
thought  of  stabbing  Joseph  ;  the  next,  of  taking  him 
in  her  arms,  and  devouring  him  with  kisses ;  but  the 
latter  passion  was  far  more  prevalent.  Then  she 
thought  of  revenging  his  refusal  on  herself;  but, 
whilst  she  was  engaged  in  this  meditation,  happily 
death  presented  himself  to  her  in  so  many  shapes,  of 
drowning,  hanging,  poisoning,  &c.,  that  her  distracted 
mind  could  resolve  on  none.  In  this  perturbation  of 
spirit,  it  accidentally  occurred  to  her  memory  that  her 
master"'s  bed  was  not  made ;  she  therefore  went 
directly  to  his  room,  where  he  happened  at  that  time 
to  be  engaged  at  his  bureau.  As  soon  as  she  saw 
him,  she  attempted  to  retire  ;  but  he  called  her  back, 
and,  taking  her  by  the  hand,  squeezed  her  so  tenderly, 
at  the  same  time  whispering  so  many  soft  things  in- 
to her  ears,  and  then  pressed  her  so  closely  with  his 
kisses,  that  the  vanquished  fair  one,  whose  passions 
were  already  raised,  and  which  were  not  so  whimsi- 
cally capricious  that  one  man  only  could  lay  them, 
though,  perhaps,  she  would  have  rather  preferred  that 
[115] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

one  —  the  vanquished  fair  one  quietly  submitted,  I 
say,  to  her  master''s  will,  who  had  just  attained  the 
accomplishment  of  his  bliss  when  Mrs.  Tow-wouse 
unexpectedly  entered  the  room,  and  caused  all 
that  confusion  which  we  have  before  seen,  and 
which  it  is  not  necessary,  at  present,  to  take  any 
farther  notice  of ;  since,  without  the  assistance  of  a 
single  hint  from  us,  every  reader  of  any  speculation  or 
experience,  though  not  married  himself,  may  easily 
conjecture  that  it  concluded  with  the  discharge  of 
Betty,  the  submission  of  Mr.  Tow-wouse,  with  some 
things  to  be  performed  on  his  side  by  way  of  grati- 
tude for  his  wife's  goodness  in  being  reconciled 
to  him,  with  many  hearty  promises  never  to  offend 
any  more  in  the  like  manner ;  and,  lastly,  his  quietly 
and  contentedly  bearing  to  be  reminded  of  his  trans- 
gressions, as  a  kind  of  penance,  once  or  twice  a  day 
during  the  residue  of  his  life. 


[116] 


BOOK    II 
CHAPTER    ONE 

OF   DIVISIONS    IN    AUTHORS. 

THERE  are  certain  mysteries  or  secrets  in 
all  trades,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest, 
from  that  of  prime-ministering  to  this 
of  authoring,  which  are  seldom  discovered 
unless  to  members  of  the  same  calling.  Among  those 
used  by  us  gentlemen  of  the  latter  occupation,  I  take 
this  of  dividing  our  works  into  books  and  chapters  to 
be  none  of  the  least  considerable.  Now,  for  want  of 
being  tinily  acquainted  with  this  secret,  common 
readers  imagine,  that  by  this  art  of  dividing  we  mean 
only  to  swell  our  works  to  a  much  larger  bulk  than 
they  would  otherwise  be  extended  to.  These  several 
places  therefore  in  our  paper,  which  are  filled  with 
our  books  and  chapters,  are  understood  as  so  much 
buckram,  stays,  and  stay-tape  in  a  taylor's  bill,  serv- 
ing only  to  make  up  the  sum  total,  commonly  found 
at  the  bottom  of  our  first  page  and  of  his  last. 

But  in  reality  the  case  is  otherwise,  and  in  tliis  as 
well  as  all  other  instances  we  consult  the  advantage 
of  our  reader,   not  our  own ;   and   indeed,   many 
[117] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

notable  uses  arise  to  him  fi'om  this  method ;  for,  first, 
those  little  spaces  between  our  chapters  may  be  looked 
upon  as  an  inn  or  resting-place  where  he  may  stop  and 
take  a  glass  or  any  other  refreshment  as  it  pleases 
him.  Nay,  our  fine  readers  will,  perhaps,  be  scarce 
able  to  travel  farther  than  through  one  of  them  in 
a  day.  As  to  those  vacant  pages  which  are  placed 
between  our  books,  they  are  to  be  regarded  as  those 
stages  where  in  long  journies  the  traveller  stays  some 
time  to  repose  himself,  and  consider  of  what  he  hath 
seen  in  the  parts  he  hath  already  passed  through ;  a 
consideration  which  I  take  the  liberty  to  recommend 
a  little  to  the  reader ;  for,  however  swift  his  capacity 
may  be,  I  would  not  advise  him  to  travel  through 
these  pages  too  fast ;  for  if  he  doth,  he  may  probably 
miss  the  seeing  some  curious  productions  of  nature, 
which  will  be  observed  by  the  slower  and  more  ac- 
curate reader.  A  volume  without  any  such  places  of 
rest  resembles  the  opening  of  wilds  or  seas,  which  tires 
the  eye  and  fatigues  the  spirit  when  entered  upon. 

Secondly,  what  are  the  contents  prefixed  to  every 
chapter  but  so  many  inscriptions  over  the  gates  of 
inns  (to  continue  the  same  metaphor),  informing  the 
reader  what  entertainment  he  is  to  expect,  which  if 
he  likes  not,  he  may  travel  on  to  the  next ;  for,  in 
biography,  as  we  are  not  tied  down  to  an  exact 
concatenation  equally  with  other  historians,  so  a 
chapter  or  two  (for  instance,  this  I  am  now  writing) 
[118] 


DIVISIONS    IN    AUTHORS 

may  be  often  passed  over  without  any  injury  to  the 
whole.  And  in  these  inscriptions  I  have  been  as 
faithful  as  possible,  not  imitating  the  celebrated 
Montaigne,  who  promises  you  one  thing  and  gives 
you  another;  nor  some  title-page  authors,  who 
promise  a  great  deal  and  produce  nothing  at  all. 

There  are,  besides  these  more  obvious  benefits, 
several  others  which  our  readers  enjoy  irom  this  art 
of  dividing;  though  perhaps  most  of  them  too 
mysterious  to  be  presently  understood  by  any  who 
are  not  initiated  into  the  science  of  authoring.  To 
mention,  therefore,  but  one  which  is  most  obvious, 
it  prevents  spoiling  the  beauty  of  a  book  by  turning 
do^vn  its  leaves,  a  method  otherwise  necessary  to 
those  readers  who  (though  they  read  with  great 
improvement  and  advantage)  are  apt,  when  they 
return  to  their  study  after  half-an-hour's  absence, 
to  forget  where  they  left  off. 

These  divisions  have  the  sanction  of  great  anti- 
quity. Homer  not  only  divided  his  great  work  into 
twenty-four  books  (in  compliment  perhaps  to  the 
twenty-four  letters  to  which  he  had  very  particular 
obligations),  but,  according  to  the  opinion  of  some 
very  sagacious  criticks,  hawked  them  all  separately', 
delivering  only  one  book  at  a  time  (probably  by 
subscription).  He  was  the  first  inventor  of  the  art 
which  hath  so  long  lain  dormant,  of  publishing  by 
numbers ;  an  art  now  brought  to  such  perfection, 
[  119  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

that  even  dictionaries  are  divided  and  exhibited 
piecemeal  to  the  public  ;  nay,  one  bookseller  hath  (to 
encourage  learning  and  ease  the  public)  contrived  to 
give  them  a  dictionary  in  this  divided  manner  for  only 
fifteen  shillings  more  than  it  would  have  cost  entire. 
Virgil  hath  given  us  his  poem  in  twelve  books,  an 
argument  of  his  modesty  ;  for  by  that,  doubtless,  he 
would  insinuate  that  he  pretends  to  no  more  than 
half  the  merit  of  the  Greek  ;  for  the  same  reason, 
our  Milton  went  originally  no  farther  than  ten;  till, 
being  puffed  up  by  the  praise  of  his  friends,  he  put 
himself  on  the  same  footing  with  the  Roman  poet. 

I  shall  not,  however,  enter  so  deep  into  this  matter 
as  some  very  learned  criticks  have  done ;  who  have 
with  infinite  labour  and  acute  discernment  discovered 
what  books  are  proper  for  embellishment,  and  what 
require  simplicity  only,  particularly  with  regard  to 
similes,  which  I  think  are  now  generally  agieed  to 
become  any  book  but  the  first. 

I  will  dismiss  this  chapter  with  the  following 
observation  :  that  it  becomes  an  author  generally  to 
divide  a  book,  as  it  does  a  butcher  to  joint  his  meat, 
for  such  assistance  is  of  great  help  to  both  the  reader 
and  the  carver.  And  now,  having  indulged  myself 
a  little,  I  will  endeavour  to  indulge  the  cuiiosity  of 
my  reader,  who  is  no  doubt  impatient  to  know  what 
he  will  find  in  the  subsequent  chapters  of  this  book. 

[120] 


CHAPTER    TWO 

A  SUEPEIZINO  INSTANCE  OF  MR.  ADAMS's  SHORT  MEMORY, 
WITH  THE  UNFORTUNATE  CONSEQUENCES  WHICH  IT 
BROUGHT  ON    JOSEPH. 

MR.  ADAMS  and  Joseph  were  now 
ready  to  depart  different  ways,  when 
an  accident  determined  the  former  to 
return  with  his  friend,  which  Tow- 
wouse,  Barnabas,  and  the  bookseller  had  not  been 
able  to  do.  This  accident  was,  that  those  sermons, 
which  the  parson  was  travelling  to  London  to  publish, 
were,  O  my  good  reader !  left  behind ;  what  he  had 
mistaken  for  them  in  the  saddlebags  being  no  other 
than  three  shirts,  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  some  otlier 
necessaries,  which  JMrs.  Adams,  who  thought  her 
husband  would  want  shirts  more  than  sermons  on  his 
journey,  had  carefully  provided  him. 

This  discovery  Avas  now  luckily  owing  to  the  pres- 
ence of  Joseph  at  the  opening  the  saddlebags  ;  who, 
having  heard  his  friend  say  he  carried  with  him 
nine  volumes  of  sermons,  and  not  being  of  that  sect 
of  philosophers  who  can  reduce  all  the  matter  of  the 
world  into  a  nutshell,  seeing  there  was  no  room  for 
[121] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

them  in  the  bags,  where  the  parson  had  said  they 
were  deposited,  had  the  curiosity  to  cry  out,  "  Bless 
me,  sir,  where  are  your  sermons  r "  The  parson 
answered,  "  There,  there,  child;  there  they  are,  under 
my  shirts."  Now  it  happened  that  he  had  taken 
forth  his  last  shirt,  and  the  vehicle  remained  visibly 
empty.  "  Sure,  sir,"  says  Joseph,  **  there  is  nothing 
in  the  bags."  Upon  which  Adams,  starting,  and 
testifying  some  sui"prize,  cried,  *'  Hey !  fie,  fie  upon 
it!  they  are  not  here  sure  enough.  Ay,  they  are 
certainly  left  behind." 

Joseph  was  greatly  concerned  at  the  uneasiness 
which  he  apprehended  his  friend  must  feel  from  this 
disappointment ;  he  begged  him  to  pursue  his  journey, 
and  promised  he  would  himself  return  w  ith  the  books 
to  him  witli  the  utmost  expedition.  "  No,  thank 
you,  child,"  answered  Adams ;  "  it  shall  not  be  so. 
What  would  it  avail  me,  to  tarry  in  the  great  city, 
unless  I  had  my  discourses  with  me,  which  are  ut  Ha 
clkam^  the  sole  cause,  the  aitia  monotate  of  my  pere- 
grination .''  No,  child,  as  this  accident  hath  happened, 
I  am  resolved  to  return  back  to  my  cure,  together 
with  you  ;  which  indeed  my  inclination  sufficiently 
leads  me  to.  This  disappointment  may  perhaps  be 
intended  for  my  good."  He  concluded  with  a  verse 
out  of  Theocritus,  which  signifies  no  more  than  that 
sometimes  it  rains,  and  sometimes  the  sun  shines. 

Joseph  bowed  with  obedience  and  thankfulness  for 


THE    HOMEWARD    JOURNEY 

the  inclination  which  the  parson  expressed  of  return- 
ing with  him  ;  and  now  the  bill  was  called  for,  which, 
on  examination,  amounted  within  a  shilling  to  the 
sum  Mr.  Adams  had  in  his  pocket.  Perhaps  the 
reader  may  wonder  how  he  was  able  to  produce  a 
sufficient  sura  for  so  many  days :  that  he  may  not 
be  surprized,  therefore,  it  cannot  be  unnecessary  to 
acquaint  him  that  he  had  borrowed  a  guinea  of  a 
servant  belonging  to  the  coach  and  six,  who  had  been 
formerly  one  of  his  parishioners,  and  whose  master, 
the  owner  of  the  coach,  then  lived  within  three  miles 
of  him ;  for  so  good  was  the  credit  of  Mr.  Adams, 
that  even  Mr.  Peter,  the  Lady  Booby's  steward, 
would  have  lent  him  a  guinea  with  very  little 
security. 

Mr.  Adams  discharged  the  bill,  and  they  were  both 
setting  out,  having  agreed  to  ride  and  tie ;  a  method 
of  travelling  much  used  by  persons  who  have  but  one 
horse  between  them,  and  is  thus  performed.  The 
two  travellers  set  out  together,  one  on  horseback, 
the  other  on  foot :  now,  as  it  generally  happens  that 
he  on  horseback  outgoes  him  on  foot,  the  custom 
is,  that,  when  he  arrives  at  the  distance  agreed  on, 
he  is  to  dismount,  tie  the  horse  to  some  gate,  tree, 
post,  or  other  thing,  and  then  proceed  on  foot ;  when 
the  other  comes  up  to  the  horse  he  unties  him, 
mounts,  and  gallops  on,  till,  having  passed  by  his 
fellow-traveller,  he  likewise  arrives  at  the  place  of 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

tying.  And  this  is  that  method  of  traveUing  so 
much  in  use  among  our  prudent  ancestors,  who  kn^w 
that  horses  had  mouths  as  well  as  legs,  and  that  th  y 
could  not  use  the  latter  without  being  at  the  expense 
of  suffering  the  beasts  themselves  to  use  the  former. 
This  was  the  method  in  use  in  those  days  when, 
instead  of  a  coach  and  six,  a  member  of  parli  iraent's 
lady  used  to  mount  a  pillion  behind  her  hnsband ; 
and  a  grave  serjeajit  at  law  condescended  to  amble 
to  Westminster  on  an  easy  pad,  with  his  clerk  kick- 
ing his  heels  behind  him. 

Adams  was  now  gone  some  minutes,  having  insisted 
on  Joseph's  beginning  the  journey  on  horseback,  and 
Joseph  had  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  when  the  hostler 
presented  him  a  bill  for  the  horse's  board  during  his 
residence  at  the  inn.  Joseph  said  Mr.  Adams  had 
paid  all ;  but  this  matter,  being  referred  to  Mr.  Tow- 
wouse,  was  by  him  decided  in  favour  of  the  hostler, 
and  indeed  with  truth  and  justice  ;  for  this  was  a 
fresh  instance  of  that  shortness  of  memory  which 
did  not  arise  from  want  of  parts,  but  that  continual 
hurry  in  which  parson  Adams  was  always  involved. 

Joseph  was  now  reduced  to  a  dilemma  which  ex- 
tremely puzzled  him.  The  sum  due  for  horse-meat 
was  twelve  shillings  (for  Adams,  who  had  borrowed 
the  beast  of  his  clerk,  had  ordered  him  to  be  fed  as 
well  as  they  could  feed  him),  and  the  cash  in  his 
pocket  amounted  to  sixpence  (for  Adams  had  divided 
[124] 


THE    KEEPSAKE 

the  last  shilling  with  him).  Now,  though  there  have 
bften  some  ingenious  persons  who  have  contrived  to 
pry  twelve  shillings  with  sixpence,  Joseph  was  not 
one  of  them.  He  had  never  contracted  a  debt  in  his 
life,  and  was  consequently  the  less  ready  at  an  expe- 
dient to  extricate  himself.  Tow-wouse  was  willing 
to  giv6ihim  credit  till  next  time,  to  which  Mrs.  Tow- 
vt'ouse  would  probably  have  consented  (for  such  was 
Joseph's  beauty,  that  it  had  made  some  impression 
even  on  that  piece  of  flint  which  that  good  woman 
wore  in  her  bosom  by  way  of  heart).  Joseph  would 
have  found,  therefore,  very  likely  the  passage  free,  had 
he  not,  when  he  honestly  discovered  the  nakedness 
of  his'  pockets,  pulled  out  that  little  piece  of  gold 
which  we  have  mentioned  before.  This  caused  Mrs. 
Tow-wouse's  eyes  to  water ;  she  told  Joseph  she  did 
not  conceive  a  man  could  want  money  whilst  he  had 
gold  in  his  pocket.  Joseph  answered  he  had  such  a 
.value  for  that  little  piece  of  gold,  that  he  would  not 
part  with  it  for  a  hundred  times  the  riches  which  the 
greatest  esquire  in  the  county  was  worth.  "  A  pretty 
way,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  "  to  run  in  debt, 
and  then  refuse  to  part  with  your  money,  because  you 
have  a  value  for  it !  I  never  knew  any  piece  of  gold 
of  more  value  than  as  many  shillings  as  it  would 
change  for."  —  "  Not  to  preserve  my  life  from  starv- 
ing, nor  to  redeem  it  from  a  robber,  would  I  part 
with  this  dear  piece  ! "  answered  Joseph.  "  What," 
[125] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

says  Mrs.  Tow-wouse,  "  I  suppose  it  was  given  you 
by  some  vile  trollop,  some  miss  or  other ;  if  it  had 
been  the  present  of  a  virtuous  woman,  you  \\  ould  not 
have  had  such  a  value  for  it.  My  husband  is  a  fool 
if  he  parts  with  the  horse  without  being  paid  for 
him.""  —  "  No,  no,  I  can't  part  with  the  horse,  indeed, 
till  1  have  the  money,"  cried  Tow-wouse,  A  resolu- 
tion highly  commended  by  a  lawyer  then  in  the  yard, 
who  declared  Mr,  Tow-wouse  might  justify  the 
detainer. 

As  we  cannot  therefore  at  present  get  Mr.  Joseph 
out  of  the  inn,  we  shall  leave  him  in  it,  and  carry  our 
reader  on  after  parson  Adams,  who,  his  mind  being 
perfectly  at  ease,  fell  into  a  contemplation  on  a  pas- 
sage in  iEschylus,  which  entertained  him  for  three 
miles  together,  without  suffering  him  once  to  reflect 
on  his  fellow-traveller. 

At  length,  having  spun  out  his  thread,  and  being 
now  at  the  summit  of  a  hill,  he  cast  his  eyes  back- 
wards, and  wondered  that  he  could  not  see  any  sign 
of  Joseph,  As  he  left  him  ready  to  mount  the  horse, 
he  could  not  apprehend  any  mischief  had  happened, 
neither  could  he  suspect  that  he  missed  his  wav,  it 
being  so  broad  and  plain  ;  the  only  reason  which 
presented  itself  to  him  was,  that  he  had  met  with  an 
acquaintance  who  had  prevailed  with  him  to  delay 
some  time  in  discourse. 

He  therefore  resolved  to  proceed  slowly  forwards, 
[126] 


THE    PARSON'S    DILEMMA 

not  doubting  but  that  he  should  be  shortly  over- 
taken ;  and  soon  came  to  a  large  water,  which,  filling 
the  whole  road,  he  saw  no  method  of  passing  unless 
by  wading  through,  which  lie  accordingly  did  up  to 
his  middle  ;  but  was  no  sooner  got  to  the  other  side 
than  he  perceived,  if  he  had  looked  over  the  hedge, 
he  would  have  found  a  footpath  capable  of  conduct- 
ing him  without  wetting  his  shoes. 

His  surprize  at  Joseph's  not  coming  up  grew  now 
very  troublesome ;  he  began  to  fear  he  knew  not 
what ;  and  as  he  determined  to  move  no  farther, 
and,  if  he  did  not  shortly  overtake  him,  to  return 
back,  he  wished  to  find  a  house  of  public  entertain- 
ment where  he  might  dry  his  clothes  and  refresh 
himself  with  a  pint ;  but,  seeing  no  such  (for  no  other 
reason  than  because  he  did  not  cast  his  eyes  a  hun- 
dred yards  forwards),  he  sat  himself  down  on  a  stile, 
and  pulled  out  his  ^Eschylns. 

A  fellow  passing  presently  by,  Adams  asked  him  if 
he  could  direct  him  to  an  alehouse.  The  fellow,  who 
had  just  left  it,  and  perceived  the  house  and  sign  to 
be  within  sight,  thinking  he  had  jeered  him,  and 
being  of  a  morose  temper,  bade  him  follow  his  nose 
and  be  d — n'd.  Adams  told  him  he  was  a  saucy 
jackanapes ;  upon  which  the  fellow  turned  about 
angrily ;  but,  perceiving  Adams  clench  his  fist,  he 
thought  proper  to  go  on  without  taking  any  farther 
notice. 

[127] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

A  horseman,  following  immediately  after,  and  being 
asked  the  same  question,  answered,  "  Friend,  there  is 
one  within  a  stone''s  throw ;  I  believe  you  may  see  it 
before  you."  Adams,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  cried,  "I 
protest,  and  so  there  is ; "  and,  thanking  his  informer, 
proceeded  directly  to  it. 


[128] 


CHAPTER    THREE 

THE  OPIKION  OF  TWO  LA\n.'ERS  CONCERXIXG  THE  SAMS 
GENTLEMAN,  WITH  MR.  ADAMs's  INQUIRY  INTO  THE 
EEUGION    OF   HIS    HOST. 

HE  had  just  entered  the  house,  and  called 
for  his  pint,  and  seated  himself,  when 
two  horsemen  came  to  the  door,  and, 
fastening  their  horses  to  the  rails, 
alighted.  They  said  there  was  a  \iolent  shower  of 
rain  coming  on,  which  they  intended  to  weather 
there,  and  went  into  a  little  room  by  themselves, 
not  perceiving  Mr.  Adams. 

One  of  these  immediately  asked  the  other,  "  If  he 
had  seen  a  more  comical  adventure  a  great  while  ? " 
Upon  which  the  other  said,  "  He  doubted  whether, 
by  law,  the  landlord  could  justify  detaining  the  horse 
for  his  com  and  hay."  But  the  former  answei-ed, 
"  Undoubtedly  he  can  ;  it  is  an  adj  udged  case,  and  I 
have  knoAvn  it  tried." 

Adams,  who,  though  he  was,  as  the  reader  may  sus- 
pect, a  little  inclined  to  forgctfalness,  never  wanted 
more  than  a  hint  to  remind  him,  overhearing  their 
discourse,  immediately  suggested  to  himself  that  this 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

was  his  own  horse,  and  that  he  had  forgot  to  pay  for 
him,  which,  upon  inquiry,  he  was  certified  of  by  the 
gentlemen  ;  who  added,  that  the  horse  was  hkely  to 
have  more  rest  than  food,  unless  he  was  paid  for. 

The  poor  parson  resolved  to  return  presently  to 
the  inn,  though  he  knew  no  more  than  Joseph  how 
to  procure  his  horse  his  liberty  ;  he  was,  however, 
prevailed  on  to  stay  under  covert,  till  the  shower, 
which  was  now  very  violent,  was  over. 

The  three  travellers  then  sat  down  together  over 
a  mug  of  good  beer  ;  when  Adams,  who  had  observed 
a  gentleman's  house  as  he  passed  along  the  road, 
inquired  to  whom  it  belonged  ;  one  of  the  horsemen 
had  no  sooner  mentioned  the  owner's  name,  than  the 
other  began  to  revile  him  in  the  most  opprobrious 
terms.  The  English  language  scarce  affords  a  single 
reproachful  word,  which  he  did  not  vent  on  this 
occasion.  He  charged  him  likewise  with  many  par- 
ticular facts.  He  said,  "  He  no  more  regarded  a 
field  of  wheat  when  he  was  hunting,  than  he  did  the 
highway ;  that  he  had  injured  several  poor  farmers 
by  trampling  their  corn  under  his  horse's  heels ;  and 
if  any  of  them  begged  him  with  the  utmost  sub- 
mission to  refrain,  his  horsewhip  was  always  ready  to 
do  them  justice."  He  said,  "  That  he  was  the  great- 
est tyrant  to  the  neighbours  in  every  other  instance, 
and  would  not  suffer  a  farmer  to  keep  a  gun,  though 
he  might  justify  it  by  law ;  and  in  his  own  family  so 
[130] 


OPPOSITE    OPINIONS 

cruel  a  master,  that  he  never  kept  a  sen'ant  a  twelve- 
month. In  his  capacity  as  a  justice,"  continued  he, 
"  he  behaves  so  partially,  that  he  commits  or  acquits 
just  as  he  is  in  the  humour,  without  any  regard  to 
truth  or  evidence ;  the  devil  may  caiTV  any  one 
before  him  for  me ;  I  would  rather  be  tried  before 
some  judges,  than  be  a  prosecutor  before  him :  if  I 
had  an  estate  in  the  neighbourhood,  I  would  sell  it 
for  half  the  value  rather  than  live  near  him." 

Adams  shook  his  head,  and  said,  *'  He  was  sorry 
such  men  were  suffered  to  proceed  with  impunity, 
and  that  riches  could  set  any  man  above  the  law." 
The  reviler,  a  little  after,  retiring  into  the  yard,  the 
gentleman  who  had  first  mentioned  his  name  to 
Adams  began  to  assure  him  "  that  his  companion 
was  a  prejudiced  person.  It  is  true,"  says  he,  **  per- 
haps, that  he  may  have  sometimes  pursued  his  game 
over  a  field  of  coni,  but  he  hath  always  made  the 
party  ample  satisfaction  :  that  so  far  from  tyrannising 
over  his  neighbours,  or  taking  away  their  guns,  he 
himself  knew  several  farmers  not  qualified,  who  not 
only  kept  guns,  but  killed  game  with  them ;  that  he 
was  the  best  of  masters  to  his  servants,  and  several 
of  them  had  grown  old  in  his  service ;  that  he  was 
the  best  justice  of  peace  in  the  kingdom,  and,  to  his 
certain  knowledge,  had  decided  many  difficult  points, 
which  were  referred  to  him,  with  the  greatest  equity 
and  the  highest   wisdom ;   and  he  verily  believed, 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

several  persons  would  give  a  year'^s  purchase  more  for 
an  estate  near  him,  than  under  the  wings  of  any 
other  great  man."  He  had  just  finished  his  encomium 
when  his  companion  returned  and  acquainted  him 
the  storm  was  over.  Upon  which  they  presently 
mounted  their  horses  and  departed. 

Adams,  who  was  in  the  utmost  anxiety  at  those 
different  characters  of  the  same  person,  asked  his 
host  if  he  knew  the  gentleman  :  for  he  began  to 
imagine  they  had  by  mistake  been  speaking  of  two 
several  gentlemen.  "  No,  no,  master,"  answered  the 
host  (a  shrewd,  cunning  fellow) ;  "  I  know  the  gentle- 
man very  well  of  whom  they  have  been  speaking,  as 
I  do  the  gentlemen  who  spoke  of  him.  As  for  riding 
over  other  men's  com,  to  my  knowledge  he  hath  not 
been  on  hoi'seback  these  two  years.  I  never  heard 
he  did  any  injury  of  that  kind ;  and  as  to  making 
reparation,  he  is  not  so  free  of  his  money  as  that 
comes  to  neither.  Nor  did  I  ever  hear  of  his  taking 
away  any  man's  gun ;  nay,  I  know  several  who  have 
guns  in  their  houses ;  but  as  for  killing  game  with 
them,  no  man  is  stricter;  and  I  believe  he  would 
ruin  any  who  did.  You  heard  one  of  the  gentlemen 
say  he  was  the  woi'st  master  in  the  world,  and  the 
other  that  he  is  the  best ;  but  for  my  own  part,  I 
know  all  his  servants,  and  never  heard  from  any  of 
them  that  he  was  either  one  or  the  other."  —  "  Aye ! 
aye ! "  says  Adams ;  "  and  how  doth  he  behave  as  a 
[  132  J 


UNTRUTHFUL    TESTIMONY 

justice,  pray  ? "  —  "  Faith,  fnend,""  answered  the  host, 
"  I  question  whether  he  is  in  the  commission  ;  the 
only  cause  I  have  heard  he  hath  decided  a  great 
while,  was  one  between  those  very  two  persons  who 
just  went  out  of  this  house  ;  and  I  am  sure  he  deter, 
mined  that  justly,  for  I  heard  the  whole  matter." — 
"  Which  did  he  decide  it  in  favour  of  ? "  quoth 
Adams.  —  "I  think  I  need  not  answer  that  question," 
cried  the  host,  "after  the  different  characters  you 
have  heard  of  him.  It  is  not  ray  business  to  con- 
tradict gentlemen  while  thev  are  drinking  in  my 
hoiLse ;  but  I  knew  neither  of  them  spoke  a  svilable 
of  truth."  —  "  God  forbid  ! "  said  Adams,  "  that  men 
should  arrive  at  such  a  pitch  of  wickedness  to  belye 
the  character  of  their  neighbom*  from  a  little  private 
affection,  or,  what  is  infinitely  worse,  a  private  spite. 
I  rather  believe  we  have  mistaken  them,  and  they 
mean  two  other  persons ;  for  there  are  many  houses 
on  the  road."  — "  Why,  prithee,  friend,"  cries  the 
host,  '•  dost  thou  pretend  never  to  have  told  a  lye  in 
thy  life  ?  "  —  "  Never  a  malicious  one,  I  am  certain," 
answered  Adams,  "  nor  with  a  design  to  injure  the 
reputation  of  any  man  living."  —  "  Pugh  !  malicious ; 
no,  no,"  replied  the  host ;  *'  not  malicious  with  a 
design  to  hang  a  man,  or  bring  him  into  trouble ; 
but  surely,  out  of  love  to  oneself,  one  must  speak 
better  of  a  friend  than  an  enemy."  —  "Out  of  love  ) 
to  yourself,  you  should  confine  yourself  to  truth,'*  / 
[183  J  \ 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

says  Adams,  "  for  by  doing  otherwise  you  injure  the 
noblest  part  of  youi-self,  your  immortal  soul.  I  can 
hardly  believe  any  man  such  an  idiot  to  risque  the 
loss  of  that  by  any  trifling  gain,  and  the  greatest 
gain  in  this  world  is  but  dirt  in  comparison  of  what 
shall  be  revealed  hereafter.^  Upon  which  the  host, 
taking  up  the  cup,  with  ^smile,  drank  a  health  to 
hereafter  ;  adding,  "  He  was  for  something  present." 
— "  Why,"  says  Adams  very  gravely,  "  do  not  you 
believe  another  world?"  To  which  the  host  an- 
swered, "  Yes ;  he  was  no  atheist."  —  "  And  you  be- 
lieve you  have  an  immortal  soul  ? "  cries  Adams. 
He  answered,  *'  God  forbid  he  should  not."  —  "  And 
heaven  and  hell  ? "  said  the  parson.  The  host  then 
bid  him  "  not  to  profane ;  for  those  ^vere  things  not 
to  be  mentioned  nor  thought  of  but  in  church," 
Adams  asked  him,  "  Why  he  went  to  church,  if  what 
he  learned  there  had  no  influence  on  his  conduct  in 
life ? "  "I  go  to  church,"  answered  the  host,  ".to 
say  my  prayers  and  behave  godly."  — "  And  dost 
not  thou,"  cried  Adams,  "  believe  what  thou  hearest 
at  church?"  —  "Most  part  of  it,  master,"  returned 
the  host.  "  And  dost  not  thou  then  tremble,"  cries 
Adams,  "  at  the  thought  of  eternal  punishment?  " 
— "  As  for  that,  master,"  said  he,  "I  never  once 
thought  about  it ;  but  what  signifies  talking  about 
matters  so  far  off?  The  mug  is  out,  shall  I  draw 
another?" 

[1S4] 


MRS.    SLIPSLOP    AGAIN 

Whilst  he  was  going  for  that  purpose,  a  stage- 
coach drove  up  to  the  door.  The  coachman  coming 
into  the  house  was  asked  by  the  mistress  what  pas- 
sengers he  had  in  his  coach  ?  "  A  parcel  of  squinny- 
gut  b — s,''  says  he ;  "  I  have  a  good  mind  to  overturn 
them  ;  you  won't  prevail  upon  them  to  drink  any- 
thing, I  assure  you."  Adams  asked  him,  "  If  he  had 
not  seen  a  young  man  on  horseback  on  the  road" 
(describing  Joseph).  "  Aye,"  said  the  coachman,  "  a 
gentlewoman  in  my  coach  that  is  his  acquaintance 
redeemed  him  and  his  horse;  he  would  have  been 
here  before  this  time,  had  not  the  storm  driven 
him  to  shelter."  "  God  bless  her  ! "  said  Adams,  in 
a  rapture ;  nor  could  he  delay  walking  out  to  satisfy 
himself  who  this  charitable  woman  was;  but  what 
was  his  surprize  when  he  saw  his  old  acquaintance, 
Madam  Slipslop  ?  Hers  indeed  was  not  so  great, 
because  she  had  been  informed  by  Joseph  that  he 
was  on  the  road.  Very  civil  were  the  salutations  on 
both  sides ;  and  Mrs.  Slipslop  rebuked  the  hostess 
for  denying  the  gentleman  to  be  there  when  she 
asked  for  him  ;  but  indeed  the  poor  woman  had  not 
erred  designedly  ;  for  Mrs.  Slipslop  asked  for  a  clergy- 
man, and  she  had  unhappily  mistaken  Adams  for  a 
person  travelling  to  a  neighbouring  fair  with  the 
thimble  and  button,  or  some  other  such  operation  ; 
for  he  marched  in  a  swinging  great  but  short  white 
coat  with  black  buttons,  a  short  wig,  and  a  hat  which, 
[135] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

so  far  from  having  a  black  hatbaiid,  had  uothing 
black  about  it. 

Joseph  was  now  come  up,  and  Mrs.  Slipslop  would 
have  had  him  quit  his  horse  to  the  parson,  and  come 
himself  into  the  coach ;  but  he  absolutely  refused, 
saying,  he  thanked  Heaven  he  was  well  enough 
recovered  to  be  veiy  able  to  ride ;  and  added,  he 
hoped  he  knew  his  duty  better  than  to  ride  in  a 
coach  while  Mr.  Adams  was  on  horseback. 

Mrs.  Slipslop  would  have  persisted  longer,  had  not 
a  lady  in  the  coach  put  a  short  end  to  the  dispute, 
by  refusing  to  suffer  a  fellow  in  a  livery  to  ride  in 
the  same  coach  with  herself;  so  it  was  at  length 
agreed  that  Adams  should  fill  the  vacant  place  in  the 
coach,  and  Joseph  should  proceed  on  horseback. 

They  had  not  proceeded  far  before  Mrs.  Slipslop, 
addi'essing  herself  to  the  pai-son,  spoke  thus :  — 
"There  hath  been  a  strange  alteration  in  our  family, 
Mr.  Adams,  since  Sir  Thomas's  death.""  "  A  strange 
alteration  indeed,"  says  Adams,  "as  I  gather  fix)m 
some  hints  which  have  dropped  from  Joseph."  — 
"  Aye,"  says  she,  "  I  could  never  have  believed  it ; 
but  the  longer  one  lives  in  the  woild,  the  more  one 
sees.  So  Joseph  hath  given  you  hints."  "But  of 
what  nature  will  always  remain  a  perfect  secret  with 
me,"  cries  the  parson :  "  he  forced  me  to  promise 
before  he  would  communicate  anything.  I  am  indeed 
concerned  to  find  her  ladyship  behavein  so  unbecoming 
[136] 


LADY    BOOBY    CRITICISED 

a  manner.  I  always  thought  her  in  the  main  a  good 
lady,  and  should  never  have  suspected  her  of  thoughts 
so  unworthy  a  Christian,  and  with  a  young  lad  her 
own  servant."  "  These  things  are  no  secrets  to  me, 
I  assure  you,"  cries  Slipslop,  "and  I  believe  they 
will  be  none  anywhere  shortly ;  for  ever  since  the 
boy's  departure,  she  hath  behaved  more  like  a  mad 
woman  than  anything  else."  "  Truly,  I  am  heartily 
concerned,"  says  Adams,  "  for  she  was  a  good  sort 
of  a  lady.  Indeed,  I  have  often  wished  she  had 
attended  a  little  more  constantly  at  the  service,  but 
she  hath  done  a  great  deal  of  good  in  the  parish." 
"  O  Mr.  Adams,"  says  Slipslop,  "  people  that  don't 
see  all,  often  know  nothing.  IMany  things  have  been 
given  away  in  our  family,  I  do  assure  you,  without 
her  knowledge.  I  have  heard  you  say  in  the  pulpit 
we  ought  not  to  brag ;  but  indeed  I  can't  avoid  say- 
ing, if  she  had  kept  the  keys  herself,  the  poor  would 
have  wanted  many  a  cordial  which  I  have  let  them 
have.  As  for  my  late  master,  he  was  as  worthy  a 
man  as  ever  lived,  and  would  have  done  infinite  good 
if  he  had  not  been  controuled  ;  but  he  loved  a  quiet 
life.  Heaven  rest  his  soul !  I  am  confident  he  is  there, 
and  enjoys  a  quiet  life,  which  some  folks  would  not 
allow  him  here."  —  Adams  answered,  "  He  had  never 
heard  this  before,  and  was  mistalcen  if  she  herself  (  for 
he  remembered  she  used  to  commend  her  mistress  and 
blame  her  master)  had  not  formerly  been  of  another 
[137] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

opinion/'  "  I  don"'!  know,''  replied  she,  "  what  I  might 
once  think  ;  but  now  I  am  confidous  matters  are  as  I 
tell  you ;  the  world  will  shortly  see  who  hath  been 
deceived ;  for  my  part,  I  say  nothing,  but  that  it  is 
wondersome  how  some  people  can  carry  all  things 
with  a  grave  face."" 

Thus  Mr.  Adams  and  she  discoursed,  till  they  came 
opposite  to  a  great  house  which  stood  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  road  :  a  lady  in  the  coach,  spying  it, 
cried,  "  Yonder  lives  the  anfortunate  Leonora,  if  one 
can  justly  call  a  woman  unfortunate  whom  we  must 
own  at  the  same  time  guilty  and  the  author  of  her 
own  calamity.""  This  was  abundantly  sufficient  to 
awaken  the  curiosity  of  Mr.  Adams,  as  indeed  it  did 
that  of  the  whole  company,  who  jointly  solicited  the 
lad}-  to  acquaint  them  with  Leonora's  history,  since 
it  seemed,  by  what  she  had  said,  to  contain  something 
remarkable. 

Tlie  lady,  who  was  perfectly  well-bred,  did  not 
require  many  entreaties,  and  having  only  wished  their 
entertainment  might  make  amends  for  the  company's 
attention,  she  began  in  the  following  manner. 


[138] 


CHAPTER    FOUR 

THE  HISTORY  OF  LEONORA,  OR  THE  CTNFOETUNATE  JILT. 

LEONORA  was  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  of 
fortune ;  she  was  tall  and  well-shaped, 
J  with  a  sprightliness  in  her  countenance 
which  often  attracts  beyond  more  regu- 
lar features  joined  with  an  insipid  air :  nor  is  this 
kind  of  beauty  loss  apt  to  deceive  than  allure;  the 
good  humour  which  it  indicates  being  often  mistaken 
for  good  nature,  and  the  vivacity  for  true  under- 
standing. 

Leonora,  who  was  now  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  lived 
with  an  aunt  of  hers  in  a  town  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land. She  was  an  extreme  lover  of  gaiety,  and  very 
rarely  missed  a  ball  or  any  other  public  assembly ; 
where  she  had  frequent  opportunities  of  satisfying  a 
greedy  appetite  of  vanity,  with  the  preference  which 
was  given  her  by  the  men  to  almost  every  other 
woman  present. 

Among  many  young  fellows  who  were  particular 
in  their  gallantries  towards  her,  Homtio  soon  distin- 
guished himself  in  her  eyes  bevond  all  his  competi- 
[139j  ' 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

tors ;  she  danced  with  more  than  ordinary  gaiety 
when  he  liappeucd  to  be  her  partner ;  neither  the 
fairness  of  the  evening,  nor  the  miisick  of  the  nightin- 
gale, could  lengthen  her  walk  like  his  company.  She 
affected  no  longer  to  understand  the  civilities  of 
others ;  whilst  she  inclined  so  attentive  an  ear  to 
every  compliment  of  Horatio,  that  she  often  smiled 
even  when  it  was  too  delicate  for  her  comprehension. 

"  Pray,  madam,"  says  Adams,  "  who  was  this 
squire  Horatio  ?  " 

Horatio,  says  the  lady,  was  a  young  gentleman  of 
a  good  family,  bred  to  the  law,  and  had  been  some 
few  years  called  to  the  degree  of  a  bairister.  His 
face  and  person  were  such  as  the  generality  allowed 
handsome  ;  but  he  had  a  dignity  in  his  air  very  rarely 
to  be  seen.  His  temper  was  of  the  saturnine  com- 
plexion, and  without  the  least  taint  of  moroseness. 
He  had  wit  and  humour,  with  an  inclination  to 
satire,  which  he  indulged  rather  too  much. 

This  gentleman,  who  had  contracted  the  most 
▼iolent  passion  for  Leonora,  was  the  last  person  who 
perceived  the  probability  of  its  success.  The  whole 
town  had  made  the  match  for  him  before  he  himself 
had  drawn  a  confidence  from  her  actions  sufficient  to 
mention  his  passion  to  her;  for  it  was  his  opinion 
( and  perhaps  he  was  there  in  the  right )  that  it  is 
highly  impolitick  to  talk  seriously  of  love  to  a 
woman  before  you  have  made  such  a  progress  in  her 
[140] 


HISTORY    OF    LEONORA 

affections,  that  she  herself  expects  and  desires  to 
hear  it. 

But  whatever  diffidence  the  fears  of  a  lover  may 
create,  which  are  apt  to  magnify  every  favour  con- 
ferred on  a  rival,  and  to  see  the  little  advances 
towards  themselves  through  the  other  end  of  the 
perspective,  it  was  impossible  that  Horatio''s  passion 
should  so  blind  his  discernment  as  to  prevent  his 
conceiving  hopes  from  the  behaWour  of  Leonora, 
whose  fondness  for  him  was  now  as  visible  to  an 
indifferent  person  in  their  company  as  his  for  her. 

"  I  never  knew  any  of  these  forward  sluts  come  to 
good  "  (says  the  lady  who  refused  Joseph^s  entrance 
into  the  coach),  "  nor  shall  I  wonder  at  anything 
she  doth  in  the  sequel." 

The  lady  proceeded  in  her  story  thus :  It  was  in 
the  midst  of  a  gay  conversation  in  the  walks  one 
evening,  when  Horatio  whispered  Leonora,  that  he 
was  desirous  to  take  a  turn  or  two  with  her  in 
private,  for  that  he  had  something  to  communicate 
to  her  of  great  consequence.  "  Are  you  sure  it  is 
of  consequence  ?  "  said  she,  smiling.  "  I  hope,"  an- 
swered he,  "  you  will  think  so  too,  since  the  whole 
future  happiness  of  my  life  must  depend  on  the 
event." 

Leonora,  who  very  much  suspected  what  was  com- 
ing, would  have  deferred  it  till  another  time ;  but 
Horatio,  who  had  more  than  half  conquered  the 
[141] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

difficulty  of  speaking  by  the  first  motion,  was  so  very 
importunate,  that  she  at  last  yielded,  and,  leaving 
the  rest  of  the  company,  they  turned  aside  into  an 
unfrequented  walk. 

They  had  retired  far  out  of  the  sight  of  the  com- 
pany, both  maintaining  a  strict  silence.  At  last 
Horatio  made  a  full  stop,  and  taking  Leonora,  who 
stood  pale  and  trembling,  gently  by  the  hand,  he 
fetched  a  deep  sigh,  and  then,  looking  on  her  eyes 
with  all  the  tenderness  imaginable,  he  cried  out  in  a 
faltering  accent,  "  O  Leonora !  is  it  necessary  for 
me  to  declare  to  you  on  what  the  future  happiness 
of  my  life  must  be  founded  ?  Must  I  say  there  is 
something  belonging  to  you  which  is  a  bar  to  my 
happiness,  and  which  unless  you  will  part  with,  I 
must  be  miserable ! "  —  "  "What  can  that  be  ? "  replied 
Leonora.  "  No  wonder,"  said  he,  "  you  are  surprized 
that  I  should  make  an  objection  to  anything  which 
is  yours  :  yet  sure  you  may  guess,  since  it  is  the  only 
one  which  the  riches  of  the  world,  if  they  were  mine, 
should  purchase  for  me.  Oh,  it  is  that  which  you 
must  part  with  to  bestow  all  the  rest !  Can  Leonora, 
or  rather  will  slie,  doubt  longer  ?  Let  me  then 
whisper  it  in  her  ears  —  It  is  your  name,  madam. 
It  is  by  parting  with  that,  by  your  condescension  to 
be  for  ever  mine,  which  must  at  once  prevent  me 
from  being  the  most  miserable,  and  will  render  me 
the  happiest  of  mankind." 

[142] 


WEDDING    PREPARATIONS 

Leonora,  covered  with  blushes,  and  with  as  angry 
a  look  as  she  could  possibly  put  on,  told  him,  "  That 
had  she  suspected  what  his  declaration  would  have 
been,  he  should  not  have  decoyed  her  from  her 
company,  that  he  had  so  surprized  and  frighted 
her,  that  she  begged  him  to  convey  her  back  as  quick 
as  possible  ; "  which  he,  trembling  very  near  as  much 
as  herself,  did. 

"  More  fool  he,"  cried  Slipslop ;  "  it  is  a  sign  he 
knew  very  little  of  our  sect," — "Truly,  madam," 
said  Adams,  "  I  think  you  are  in  the  right :  I  should 
have  insisted  to  know  a  piece  of  her  mind,  when  I 
had  carried  matters  so  far."  But  Mrs.  Grave-airs 
desired  the  lady  to  omit  all  such  fulsome  stuff  in  her 
story,  for  that  it  made  her  sick. 

Well  then,  madam,  to  be  as  concise  as  possible, 
said  the  lady,  many  weeks  had  not  passed  after  this 
interview  before  Horatio  and  Leonora  were  what 
they  call  on  a  good  footing  together.  All  ceremonies 
except  the  last  were  now  over ;  the  writings  were  now 
drawn,  and  everything  was  in  the  utmost  fonvard- 
ness  preparative  to  the  putting  Horatio  in  possession 
of  all  his  wishes.  I  will,  if  you  please,  repeat  you  a 
letter  from  each  of  them,  which  I  have  got  by  heart, 
and  which  will  give  you  no  small  idea  of  their 
passion  on  both  sides. 

Mrs.  Grave-airs  objected  to  hearing  these  letters ; 
but  being  put  to  the  vote,  it  was  carried  against  her 
[143  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

by  all  the  rest  in  the  coach  ;  parson  Adams  contend- 
ing for  it  with  the  utmost  vehemence. 

Horatio  to  Leonora. 

"  How  vain,  most  adorable  creature,  is  the  pursuit 
of  pleasure  in  the  absence  of  an  object  to  which  the 
mind  is  entirely  devoted,  unless  it  have  some  relation 
to  that  object !  I  was  last  night  condemned  to  the 
society  of  men  of  ■wit  and  learning,  which,  however 
agreeable  it  might  have  formerly  been  to  me,  now  only 
gave  me  a  suspicion  that  they  imputed  my  absence  in 
conversation  to  the  tnie  cause.  For  which  reason, 
when  your  engagements  forbid  me  the  ecstatic  happi- 
ness of  seeing  you,  I  am  always  desirous  to  be  alone ; 
since  my  sentiments  for  Leonora  are  so  delicate,  that  I 
cannot  bear  the  apprehension  of  another's  pr3ring  into 
those  delightful  endearments  with  which  the  warm 
imagination  of  a  lover  will  sometimes  indulge  him,  and 
which  I  suspect  my  eyes  then  betray.  To  fear  this 
discovery  of  our  thoughts  may  perhaps  appear  too  ridi- 
culous a  nicety  to  minds  not  susceptible  of  all  the 
tendernesses  of  this  dehcate  passion.  And  surely  we 
shall  suspect  there  are  few  such,  w^hen  we  consider  that 
it  requires  every  human  virtue  to  exert  itself  in  its  full 
extent ;  since  the  beloved,  whose  happiness  it  ultimately 
respects,  may  give  us  charming  opportunities  of  being 
brave  in  her  defence,  generous  to  her  wants,  com- 
passionate to  her  afflictions,  grateful  to  her  kindness ; 
and  in  the  same  manner,  of  exercising  every  other 
virtue,  which  he  who  would  not  do  to  any  degree, 
and  that  with  the  utmost  rapture,  can  never  deserve 
the  name  of  a  lover.  It  is,  therefore,  with  a  view  to 
[14-4] 


LEONORA^S    LETTER 

the  delicate  modesty  of  your  mind  that  I  cultivate  it  so 
purely  in  my  own ;  and  it  is  that  which  will  sufficiently 
suggest  to  you  the  uneasiness  I  bear  from  those  liberties, 
which  men  to  whom  the  world  allow  politeness  will 
sometimes  give  themselves  on  these  occasions. 

"Can  I  tell  you  with  what  eagerness  I  expect  the 
arrival  of  that  blest  day,  when  I  shall  experience  the 
falsehood  of  a  common  assertion,  that  the  greatest 
human  happiness  consists  in  hope  ?  A  doctrine  which 
no  person  had  ever  stronger  reason  to  believe  than  my- 
self at  present,  since  none  ever  tasted  such  bliss  as  fires 
my  bosom  with  the  thoughts  of  spending  my  future 
days  with  such  a  companion,  and  that  every  action  of 
my  life  will  have  the  glorious  satisfaction  of  conduc- 
ing to  your  happiness." 

Leonora  to  Horatio.* 

"  The  refinement  of  your  mind  has  been  so  evidently 
proved  by  every  word  and  action  ever  since  I  had  the 
first  pleasure  of  knowing  you,  that  I  thought  it  im- 
possible my  good  opinion  of  Horatio  could  have  been 
heightened  to  any  additional  proof  of  merit.  This  very 
thought  was  my  amusement  when  I  received  your  last 
letter,  which,  when  I  opened,  I  confess  I  was  surprized 
to  find  the  delicate  sentiments  expressed  there  so  far 
exceeding  what  I  thought  could  come  even  from  you 
(although  I  know  all  the  generous  principles  human 
nature  is  capable  of  are  centred  in  your  breast),  that 
words  cannot  paint  what  I  feel  on  the  reflection  that 

1  This  letter  was  written  by  a  young  lady  on  reading  the 
former. 

[  145  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

my  happiness  shall  be  the  ultimate  end  of  all  your 
actions. 

"  Oh,  Horatio  !  what  a  life  must  that  be,  where  the 
meanest  domestic  cares  are  sweetened  by  the  pleasing 
consideration  that  the  man  on  earth  who  best  deserves, 
and  to  whom  you  are  most  inclined  to  give  your  affec- 
tions, is  to  reap  either  profit  or  pleasure  from  all  you  do  ! 
In  such  a  case  toils  must  be  turned  into  diversions,  and 
nothing  but  the  unavoidable  inconveniences  of  life  can 
make  us  remember  that  we  are  mortal. 

**  If  the  solitary  turn  of  your  thoughts,  and  the  desire 
of  keeping  them  undiscovered,  makes  even  the  conver- 
sation of  men  of  wit  and  learning  tedious  to  you,  what 
anxious  hours  must  I  spend,  who  am  condemned  by 
custom  to  the  conversation  of  women,  whose  natural 
curiosity  leads  them  to  pry  into  all  my  thoughts,  and 
whose  envy  can  never  suffer  Horatio's  heart  to  be  pos- 
sessed by  any  one,  without  forcing  them  into  malicious 
designs  against  the  person  who  is  so  happy  as  to  possess 
it !  But,  indeed,  if  ever  envy  can  possibly  have  any 
excuse,  or  even  alleviation,  it  is  in  this  case,  where  the 
good  is  so  great,  and  it  must  be  equally  natural  to  all  to 
wish  it  for  themselves ;  nor  am  I  ashamed  to  own  it : 
and  to  your  merit,  Horatio,  I  am  obliged,  that  prevents 
my  being  in  that  most  uneasy  of  all  the  situations  I  can 
figure  in  my  imagination,  of  being  led  by  inclination 
to  love  the  person  whom  my  own  judgment  forces  me 
to  condemn." 

Matters   were  in   so   great   forwardness   between 
this  fond  couple,  that  the  day  was  fixed  for  their 
marriage,  and  was  now  within  a  fortniglit,  when  the 
[146] 


HORATIO    AT    THE    SESSIONS 

sessions  chanced  to  be  held  for  that  county  in  a  towTi 
about  twenty  miles'  distance  from  that  which  is  the 
scene  of  our  story.  It  seems,  it  is  usual  for  the 
young  gentlemen  of  the  bar  to  repair  to  these  ses- 
sions, not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  profit  as  to  show 
their  parts  and  learn  the  law  of  the  justices  of  peace  ; 
for  which  purpose  one  of  the  wisest  and  gravest  of 
rU  the  justices  is  appointed  speaker,  or  chairman, 
as  they  modestly  call  it,  and  he  reads  them  a  lecture, 
and  instructs  them  in  the  true  knowledge  of  the 
law. 

"You  are  here  guilty  of  a  little  mistake,"  says 
Adams,  "  which,  if  you  please,  I  will  correct :  I  have 
attended  at  one  of  these  quarter-sessions,  where  I 
observed  the  counsel  taught  the  justices,  instead  of 
learning  anything  of  them." 

It  is  not  very  material,  said  the  lady.  Hither  re- 
paired Horatio,  who,  as  he  hoped  by  his  profession 
to  advance  his  fortune,  which  was  not  at  present  very 
large,  for  the  sake  of  his  dear  Leonora,  he  resolved 
to  spare  no  pains,  nor  lose  any  opportunity  of  im- 
proving or  advancing  himself  in  it. 

The  same  afternoon  in  which  he  left  the  town,  as 
Leonora  stood  at  her  window,  a  coach  and  six  passed 
by,  which  she  declared  to  be  the  completest,  genteel- 
est,  prettiest  equipage  she  ever  saw;  adding  these 
remarkable  words,  "Oh,  I  am  in  love  with  that 
equipage ! "  which,  though  her  friend  Florella  at 
[U7j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

that  time  did  not  greatly  regard,  slie  hath  since 
remembered. 

In  the  evening  an  assembly  was  held,  which  Leonora 
honoured  with  her  company ;  but  intended  to  pay 
her  dear  Horatio  the  compliment  of  refusing  to  dance 
in  his  absence. 

Oh,  why  have  not  women  as  good  resolution  to 
maintain  their  vows  as  they  have  often  good  inclina- 
tions in  making  them ! 

The  gentleman  who  owned  the  coach  and  six  came 
to  the  assembly.  His  clothes  were  as  remarkably 
fine  as  his  equipage  could  be.  He  soon  attracted 
the  eyes  of  the  company  ;  all  the  smarts,  all  the  silk 
waistcoats  with  silver  and  gold  edgings,  were  eclipsed 
in  an  instant. 

"  Madam,"  said  Adams,  "  if  it  be  not  impertinent, 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  how  this  gentleman  was 
drest."" 

Sir,  answered  the  lady,  I  have  been  told  he  had  on 
a  cut  velvet  coat  of  a  cinnamon  colour,  lined  with  a 
pink  satten,  embroidered  all  over  with  gold  ;  his 
waistcoat,  which  was  cloth  of  silver,  was  embroidered 
with  gold  likewise.  I  cannot  be  particular  as  to  the 
rest  of  his  dress  ;  but  it  was  all  in  the  French  fashion, 
for  Bellaraiine  (that  was  his  name)  was  just  arrived 
from  Paris. 

This  fine  figure  did  not  more  entirely  engage  the 
eyes  of  every  lady  in  the  assembly  than  Leonora  did 
[148] 


LEONORA    AT    THE    ASSEMBLY 

his.  He  had  scarce  beheld  her,  but  he  stood  motion- 
less and  fixed  as  a  statue,  or  at  least  would  have  done 
so  if  good  breeding  had  permitted  him.  However, 
he  carried  it  so  far  before  he  had  power  to  correct 
himself,  that  every  person  in  the  room  easily  dis- 
covered where  his  admiration  was  settled.  The  other 
ladies  began  to  single  out  their  former  partners,  all 
perceiving  who  would  be  Bellarmine's  choice ;  which 
they  however  endeavoured,  by  all  possible  means,  to 
prevent :  many  of  them  saying  to  Leonora,  "  O 
rnadam  !  I  suppose  we  shan''t  have  the  pleasure  of 
seeing  you  dance  to-night ;""  and  then  crying  out,  in 
Bellarmine's  hearing,  "  Oh  !  Leonora  will  not  dance, 
I  assui'e  you ;  her  partner  is  not  here.""  One  mali- 
ciously attempted  to  prevent  her,  by  sending  a  dis- 
agreeable fellow  to  ask  her,  that  so  she  might  be 
obliged  either  to  dance  with  him,  or  sit  down ;  but 
this  scheme  proved  abortive. 

Leonora  saw  hei-self  admired  by  the  fine  stranger, 
and  envied  by  every  woman  present.  Her  little  heart 
began  to  flutter  within  her,  and  her  head  was  agi- 
tated with  a  convulsive  motion  :  she  seemed  as  if  she 
would  speak  to  several  of  her  acquaintance,  but  had 
nothing  to  say  ;  for,  as  she  would  not  mention  her 
present  triumph,  so  she  could  not  disengage  her 
thoughts  one  moment  from  the  contemplation  of  it. 
She  had  never  tasted  anything  like  this  happiness. 
She  had  before  known  what  it  was  to  torment  a  single 
[149] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

woman ;  but  to  be  hated  and  secretly  cursed  by  a 
whole  assembly  was  a  joy  reserved  for  this  blessed 
moment.  As  this  vast  profusion  of  extasy  had  con- 
founded her  understanding,  so  there  was  nothing  so 
foolish  as  her  behaviour :  she  played  a  thousand 
childish  tricks,  distorted  her  person  into  several 
shapes,  and  her  face  into  several  laughs,  without  any 
reason.  In  a  word,  her  cari'iage  was  as  absurd  as  her 
desires,  which  were  to  affect  an  insensibility  of  the 
stranger's  admiration,  and  at  the  same  time  a  triumph, 
from  that  admiration,  over  every  woman  in  the  room. 

In  this  temper  of  mine,  Bellarmine,  having  inquired 
who  she  was,  advanced  to  her,  and  with  a  low  bow 
begged  the  honour  of  dancing  with  her,  which  she, 
with  as  low  a  curtesy,  immediately  granted.  She 
danced  with  him  all  night,  and  enjoyed,  perhaps,  the 
highest  pleasure  that  she  was  capable  of  feeling. 

At  these  words,  Adams  fetched  a  deep  groan, 
which  frighted  the  ladies,  who  told  him,  "They 
hoped  he  was  not  ill."  He  answered,  "  He  groaned 
only  for  the  folly  of  Leonora." 

Leonora  retired  (continued  the  lady)  about  six  in 
the  morning,  but  not  to  rest.  She  tumbled  and 
tossed  in  her  bed,  with  very  short  intervals  of  sleep, 
and  those  entirely  filled  with  dreams  of  the  equipage 
and  fine  clothes  she  had  seen,  and  the  balls,  operas, 
and  ridottos,  which  had  been  the  subject  of  their 
conversation. 

.    [150] 


BELLARMIxNE^S    SUCCESS 

In  the  afternoon,  Bellarmine,  in  the  dear  coach 
and  six,  came  to  wait  on  her.  He  was  indeed 
charmed  with  her  person,  and  was,  on  inquiry,  so 
well  pleased  with  the  circumstances  •  of  her  father 
(for  he  himself,  notwithstanding  all  his  finery,  was 
not  quite  so  rich  as  a  Croesus  or  an  Attains).  — 
"  Attains,"  says  Mr.  Adams  :  "  but  pray  how  came 
you  acquainted  with  these  names?"  The  lady 
smiled  at  the  question,  and  proceeded.  He  was  so 
pleased,  I  say,  that  he  resolved  to  make  his  addresses 
to  her  directly.  He  did  so  accordingly,  and  that 
with  so  much  warmth  and  briskness,  that  he  quickly 
baffled  her  weak  repulses,  and  obliged  the  lady  to 
refer  him  to  her  father,  who,  she  knew,  would  quickly 
declare  in  favour  of  a  coach  and  six. 

Thus  what  Horatio  had  by  sighs  and  tears,  love 
and  tenderness,  been  so  long  obtaining,  the  French- 
English  Bellarmine  with  gaiety  and  gallantry  pos- 
sessed himself  of  in  an  instant.  In  other  words, 
what  modesty  had  employed  a  full  year  in  raising,  ^ 

impudence  demolished  in  twenty-four  hours.  okPw^ 

Here   Adams   groaned   a  second   time ;    but   the    ^  r^ 
ladies,  who  began  to  smoke  him,  took  no  notice.  ^*^'^Ji^ 

From  the  opening  of  the  assembly  till  the  end  of        _^ 
Bellarmine's  visit,  Leonora  had  scarce  once  thought     ^ 
of  Horatio ;  but  he  now  began,  though  an  unwel- 
come guest,  to  enter  into  her  mind.     She  wished  she 
had  seen  the  charming  Bellarmine  and  his  charming 
[151] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

equipage  before  matters  had  gone  so  far.  "Yet 
why,"  says  she,  "  should  I  wish  to  have  seen  him 
before ;  or  what  signifies  it  that  I  have  seen  him  now  ? 
Is  not  Horatio  my  lover,  almost  my  husband  ?  Is 
he  not  as  handsome,  nay  handsomer  than  Bellarmine  ? 
Aye,  but  Bellarmine  is  the  genteeler,  and  the  finer 
man ;  yes,  that  he  must  be  allowed.  Yes,  yes,  he  is 
that  certainly.  But  did  not  I,  no  longer  ago  than 
yesterday,  love  Horatio  more  than  all  the  world  ? 
Aye,  but  yesterday  I  had  not  seen  BeJlarmine.  But 
doth  not  Horatio  doat  on  me,  and  may  he  not  in 
despair  break  his  heart  if  I  abandon  him  ?  Well, 
and  hath  not  Bellamiine  a  heart  to  break  too  ?  Yes, 
but  I  promised  Horatio  first ;  but  that  was  poor 
Bellarmine's  misfortune;  if  I  had  seen  him  first,  I 
should  certainly  have  preferred  him.  Did  not  the 
dear  creature  prefer  me  to  every  woman  in  the 
assembly,  when  every  she  was  laying  out  for  him  ? 
When  was  it  in  Horatio's  power  to  give  me  such  an 
instance  of  affection .''  Can  he  give  me  an  equipage, 
or  any  of  those  things  which  Bellarmine  will  make 
me  mistress  of?  How  vast  is  the  difference  between 
being  the  wife  of  a  poor  counsellor  and  the  wife  of  one 
of  Bellannine''s  fortune !  If  I  marry  Horatio,  I  shall 
triumph  over  no  more  than  one  rival ;  but  by  marry- 
ing Bellarmine,  I  shall  be  the  envy  of  all  my  acquaint- 
ance. What  happiness !  But  can  I  suffer  Horatio 
to  die  ?  for  he  hath  sworn  he  cannot  survive  my  loss : 
[152] 


THE    AUNT'S    ADVICE 

but  perhaps  he  may  not  die:  if  he  should,  can  I 
prevent  it  ?  Must  I  sacrifice  myself  to  him  ?  besides, 
Bellarmine  may  be  as  miserable  for  me  too."  She 
was  thus  arguing  with  herself,  when  some  young 
ladies  called  her  to  the  walks,  and  a  little  reUeved 
her  anxiety  for  the  present. 

The  next  morning  Bellarmine  breakfasted  with  her 
in  presence  of  her  aunt,  whom  he  sufficiently  informed 
of  his  passion  for  Leonora.  He  was  no  sooner  with- 
drawn than  the  old  lady  began  to  advise  her  niece 
on  this  occasion.  "  You  see,  child,"  says  she,  "  what 
fortune  hath  thrown  in  your  way ;  and  I  hope  you 
will  not  withstand  your  own  preferment."  Leonora, 
sighing,  begged  her  not  to  mention  any  such  thing, 
when  she  knew  her  engagements  to  Horatio. 
"  Engagements  to  a  fig !  "  cried  the  aunt ;  "  you 
should  thank  Heaven  on  your  knees  that  you  have 
it  yet  in  your  power  to  break  them.  Will  any 
woman  hesitate  a  moment  whether  she  shall  ride  in 
a  coach  or  walk  on  foot  all  the  days  of  her  life.?' 
But  Bellarmine  drives  six,  and  Horatio  not  even  a 
pair."  — "  Yes,  but,  madam,  what  will  the  world 
say  ?  "  answered  Leonora  :  "  will  not  they  condemn 
me .'' "  — "  The  world  is  always  on  the  side  of  pru- 
dence," cries  the  aunt,  "  and  would  surely  condemn 
you  if  you  sacrificed  your  interest  to  any  motive  I 
whatever.  Oh  !  I  know  the  world  very  well ;  and 
you  shew  your  ignorance,  my  dear,  by  your  objection.  I 
[153] 


/  JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

O'  my  conscience !  the  world  is  wiser.  I  have  lived 
longer  in  it  than  you ;  and  I  assure  you  there  is  not 
anything  worth  our  regard  besides  money ;  nor  did 
I  ever  know  one  person  wlio  manied  from  other 
considerations,  who  did  not  afterwards  heartily  re- 
pent it.  Besides,  if  we  examine  the  two  men,  can 
you  prefer  a  sneaking  fellow,  who  hath  been  bred  at 
the  university,  to  a  fine  gentleman  just  come  from 
L.Jiis  travels.  All  the  world  must  allow  Bellarmine  to 
be  a  fine  gentleman,  positively  a  fine  gentleman,  and 
a  handsome  man.""  —  "  Perhaps,  madam,  I  should  not 
doubt,  if  I  knew  how  to  be  handsomely  off  with  the 
other."  —  "  Oh  !  leave  that  to  me,"  says  the  aunt. 
"  You  know  your  father  hath  not  been  acquainted  with 
the  affair.  Indeed,  for  my  part  I  thought  it  might  do 
well  enough,  not  dreaming  of  such  an  offer ;  but  I  '11 
disengage  you  :  leave  me  to  give  the  fellow  an  answer. 
I  warrant  you  shall  have  no  farther  trouble.'' 

Leonora  was  at  length  satisfied  with  her  aunt's 
reasoning;  and  Bellarmine  supping  with  her  that 
evening,  it  was  agreed  he  should  the  next  morning 
go  to  her  father  and  propose  the  match,  which  she 
consented  should  be  consummated  at  his  return. 

The  aunt  retired  soon  after  supper  ;  and,  the  lovers 
being  left  together,  Bellarmine  began  in  the  follow- 
ing manner :  "  Yes,  madam ;  this  coat,  I  assure  you, 
was  made  at  Paris,  and  I  defy  the  best  English 
taylor  even  to  imitate  it.  There  is  not  one  of  them 
[154] 


HORATIO'S    RETURN 

can  cut,  madam  ;  they  can't  cut.  If  you  observe  how 
this  skirt  is  turned,  and  this  sleeve  :  a  clumsy  English 
rascal  can  do  nothing  like  it.  Pray,  how  do  you  like 
my  liveries?''  Leonora  answered,  "She  thought 
them  very  pretty."  — "  All  French,"  says  he,  "  I 
assure  you,  except  the  greatcoats  ;  I  never  trust  any- 
thing more  than  a  greatcoat  to  an  Englishman. 
You  know  one  must  encourage  our  own  people  what 
one  can,  especially  as,  before  I  had  a  place,  I  was  in 
the  country  interest,  he,  he,  he !  But  for  myself,  I 
would  see  the  dirty  island  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea, 
rather  than  wear  a  single  rag  of  English  work  about 
me :  and  I  am  sure,  after  you  have  made  one  tour  to 
Paris,  you  will  be  of  the  same  opinion  with  regard 
to  your  own  clothes.  You  can't  conceive  what  an 
addition  a  French  dress  would  be  to  your  beauty  ;  I 
positively  assure  you,  at  the  first  opera  I  saw  since 
I  came  over,  I  mistook  the  English  ladies  for  chamber- 
maids, he,  he,  he  !  " 

With  such  sort  of  polite  discourse  did  the  gay 
Bellarmine  entertain  his  beloved  Leonora,  when  the 
door  opened  on  a  sudden,  and  Horatio  entered  the 
room.  Here  't  is  impossible  to  express  the  surprize 
of  Leonora. 

"  Poor   woman ! "   says    Mrs.    Slipslop,    "  what  a 
terrible  quandary  she  must  be  in  !  "  —  "  Not  at  all," 
says  Mrs.  Grave-airs  ;  "  such  sluts  can  never  be  con- 
founded," —  "  She  must  have  then  more  than  Corin- 
[155] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

thian  assurance,"  said  Adams  ;  "  aye,  more  than  Lais 
herself." 

A  long  silence,  continued  the  lady,  prevailed  in 
the  whole  company.  If  the  familiar  on  trance  of 
Horatio  struck  the  greatest  astonishment  into  Bel- 
larmine,  the  unexpected  presence  of  Bellarmine  no 
less  surprized  Horatio.  At  length  Leonora,  collect- 
ing all  the  spirit  she  was  mistress  of,  addressed  her- 
self to  the  latter,  and  pretended  to  wonder  at  the 
reason  of  so  late  a  visit.  "  I  should  indeed,"  an- 
swered he,  "  have  made  some  apology  for  disturbing 
you  at  this  hour,  had  not  my  finding  you  in  company 
assured  me  I  do  not  break  in  upon  your  repose." 
Bellarmine  rose  from  his  chair,  traversed  the 
room  in  a  minuet  step,  and  hummed  an  opera  tune, 
while  Horatio,  advancing  to  Leonora,  asked  her  in 
a  whisper  if  that  gentleman  was  not  a  relation  of 
hers ;  to  which  she  answered  with  a  smile,  or  rather 
sneer,  "  No,  he  is  no  relation  of  mine  yet ; "  adding, 
"  she  could  not  guess  the  meaning  of  his  question." 
Horatio  told  her  softly,  "  It  did  not  arise  from  jeal- 
ousy."—  "Jealousy!  I  assure  you,  it  would  be 
very  strange  in  a  common  acquaintance  to  give  him- 
self any  of  those  airs."  These  words  a  little  surprized 
Horatio  ;  but,  before  he  had  time  to  answer,  Bellar- 
mine danced  up  to  the  lady  and  told  her,  "  He  feared 
he  interrupted  some  business  between  her  and  the 
gentleman."  —  "I  can  have  no  business,"  said  she, 
[156] 


A    COLD    RECEPTION 

"  with  the  gentleman,  nor  any  other,  which  need  be 
any  secret  to  you." 

"  You  '11  pardon  me,''  said  Horatio,  "  if  I  desire  to 
know  who  this  gentleman  is  who  is  to  be  entrusted 
with  all  our  secrets."  —  "  You  '11  know  soon  enough," 
cries  Leonora;  "but  I  can't  guess  what  secrets  can 
ever  pass  between  us  of  such  mighty  consequence.'* 
— "  No,  madam  !  "  cries  Horatio  ;  "  I  am  sure  you 
would  not  have  me  understand  you  in  earnest."  — 
"'Tis  indifferent  to  me,"  says  she,  "how  you  under- 
stand me  ;  but  I  think  so  unseasonable  a  visit  is  diffi- 
cult to  be  understood  at  all,  at  least  when  people 
find  one  engaged :  though  one's  servants  do  not  deny 
one,  one  may  expect  a  well-bred  person  should  soon 
take  the  hint."  "  Madam,"  said  Horatio,  "  I  did  not 
imagine  any  engagement  with  a  stranger,  as  it  seems 
this  gentleman  is,  would  have  made  my  visit  imperti- 
nent, or  that  any  such  ceremonies  were  to  be  pre- 
served between  persons  in  our  situation."  "  Sure  you 
are  in  a  dream,"  says  she,  "or  would  persuade  me 
that  I  am  in  one.  I  know  no  pretensions  a  common 
acquaintance  can  have  to  lay  aside  the  ceremonies  of 
good  breeding."  "  Sure,"  said  he,  "  I  am  in  a  dream  ; 
for  it  is  impossible  I  should  be  really  esteemed  a 
common  acquaintance  by  Leonora,  after  what  has 
passed  between  us  ?  "  "  Passed  between  us  !  Do  you 
intend  to  affront  me  before  this  genti  ■  man  ?  "  "  D — n 
me,  afiront  the  lady,"  says  Bellarmine,  cocking  hia 
[157] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

hat,  and  strutting  up  to  Horatio :  "  does  any  man 
dare  affront  this  lady  before  me,  d — n  me  ? "" 
"  Hark  'ee,  sir,"  says  Horatio, "  I  would  advise  you  to 
lay  aside  that  fierce  air ;  for  I  am  mightily  deceived 
if  this  lady  has  not  a  violent  desire  to  get  your  wor- 
ship a  good  drubbing.""  "  Sir,""  said  Bellarmine,  *'  I 
have  the  honour  to  be  her  protector  ;  and,  d — n  me, 
if  I  understand  your  meaning.""  "Sir,"  ansvi^ered 
Horatio,  "  she  is  rather  your  protectress ;  but  give 
yourself  no  more  aii*s,  for  you  see  I  am  prepared  for 
you ""  (shaking  his  whip  at  him).  "  Oh  !  servHeur  ires 
humble^''  says  Bellarmine :  "  Je  vaus  entend  parfait- 
ment  bien.'*''  At  which  time  the  aunt,  who  had  heard 
of  Horatio's  visit,  entered  the  room,  and  soon  satisfied 
all  his  doubts.  She  convinced  him  that  he  was  never 
more  awake  in  his  life,  and  that  nothing  more  extra- 
ordinary had  happened  in  his  three  days'*  absence 
than  a  small  alteration  in  the  affections  of  Leonora  ; 
who  now  burst  into  tears,  and  N\ondcrcd  what  rea- 
son she  had  given  him  to  use  her  in  so  barbarous  a 
manner.  Horatio  desired  Bellarmine  to  withdraw 
with  him ;  but  tlie  ladies  prevented  it  by  laying 
violent  hands  on  the  latter  ;  upon  which  the  former 
took  his  leave  without  any  great  ceremony,  and  de- 
parted, leaving  the  lady  with  his  rival  to  consult  for 
his  safety,  which  Leonora  feared  her  indisci-etion 
might  have  endangered ;  but  the  aunt  comforted  her 
with  assurances  that  Horatio  would  not  venture  his 
[158] 


BAD    NEWS 

person  against  so  accomplished  a  cavalier  as  Bellar- 
mine,  and  that,  being  a  lawyer,  he  would  seek  revenge 
in  his  own  way,  and  the  most  they  had  to  apprehend 
from  him  was  an  action. 

They  at  length  therefore  agreed  to  permit  Bellar- 
mine  to  retire  to  his  lodgings,  having  first  settled  all 
matters  relating  to  the  journey  which  he  was  to 
undertake  in  the  morning,  and  their  preparations 
for   the   nuptials   at   his   return. 

But,  alas !  as  wise  men  have  observed,  the  seat  of 
valour  is  not  the  countenance  ;  and  manv  a  grave  and 
plain  man  will,  on  a  just  provocation,  betake  himself 
to  that  mischievous  metal,  cold  iron  ;  while  men  of  a 
fiercer  brow,  and  sometimes  with  that  emblem  of 
courage,  a  cockade,  w^ill  more  prudently  decline  it. 

Leonora  was  waked  in  the  morning,  from  a  vision- 
ary coach  and  six,  with  the  dismal  account  that  Bel- 
larmine  was  run  through  the  body  by  Horatio  ;  that 
he  lay  languishing  at  an  inn,  and  the  surgeons  had 
declared  the  wound  mortal.  She  immediately  leaped 
out  of  the  bed,  danced  about  the  room  in  a  frantic 
manner,  tore  her  hair  and  beat  her  breast  in  all  the 
agonies  of  despair ;  in  which  sad  condition  her  aunt, 
who  likewise  arose  at  the  news,  found  her.  The  good 
old  lady  applied  her  utmost  art  to  comfort  her  niece. 
She  told  her,  "  While  there  was  life  there  was  hope ; 
but  that  if  he  should  die  her  affliction  would  be  of  no 
service  to  Bellarmine,  and  would  only  expose  herself^ 
.    [159] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

which  might,  pro])ably,  keep  her  some  time  without 
any  fatui'e  offer  ;  that,  as  mattei-s  had  happened,  her 
wisest  way  would  be  to  think  no  more  of  Bellarmine, 
but  to  endeavour  to  regain  the  affections  of  Horatio." 
"  Speak  not  to  mc,''  cried  the  disconsolate  Leonora ; 
"  is  it  not  owing  to  mo  that  poor  Bellarmine  has  lost 
his  life  ?  Have  not  these  cursed  charms  (at  which 
words  she  looked  steadfastly  in  the  glass)  been  the 
ruin  of  the  most  charming  man  of  this  age  ?  Can  I 
ever  bear  to  contemplate  my  own  face  again  (with  her 
eyes  still  fixed  on  the  glass)  ?  Am  I  not  the  mur- 
deress of  the  finest  gentleman  ?  No  other  woman  in 
the  town  could  liave  made  any  impression  on  him."" 
"  Never  think  of  things  past,"  cries  the  aunt :  "  think 
of  regaining  the  affections  of  Horatio."  "  What 
reason,"  said  the  niece,  "  have  I  to  hope  he  would  for- 
give me  ?  No,  I  have  lost  him  as  well  as  the  other, 
and  it  was  your  wicked  advice  which  was  the  occasion 
of  all ;  you  seduced  me,  contrary  to  my  inclinations, 
to  abandon  poor  Horatio  (at  which  words  she  burst 
into  tears) ;  you  prevailed  upon  me,  w  hether  I  would 
or  no,  to  give  up  my  affections  for  him  ;  had  it  not 
been  for  you,  Bellarmine  never  would  have  entered 
into  ray  thoughts  ;  had  not  his  addresses  been  backed 
by  your  persuasions,  they  never  would  have  made 
any  impression  on  me ;  I  should  have  defied  all  the 
fortune  and  equipage  in  the  world ;  but  it  was  you, 
it  was  you,  who  got  the  better  of  my  youth  and 
[160] 


BELLARMINE'S    LETTER 

simplicity,  and  forced  me  to  lose  my  dear  Horatio 
for  ever."" 

Tlie  aunt  was  almost  borne  down  with  this  torrent 
of  words  ;  she,  however,  rallied  all  the  strength  she 
could,  and,  drawing  her  mouth  up  in  a  purse,  began  : 
"  I  am  not  surprized,  niece,  at  this  ingi'atitude. 
Those  who  advise  young  women  for  their  interest, 
must  always  expect  such  a  return :  I  am  convinced 
my  brother  will  thank  me  for  breaking  oft'  your  match 
with  Horatio,  at  any  rate."  —  "  That  may  not  be  in 
your  power  yet,"  answered  Leonora,  "  though  it  is 
very  ungrateful  in  you  to  desire  or  attempt  it,  after 
the  presents  yon  have  received  from  him."  (For 
indeed  true  it  is,  that  many  presents,  and  some  pretty 
valuable  ones,  had  passed  from  Horatio  to  the  old 
lady ;  but  as  true  it  is,  that  Bellarmine,  when  he 
breakfasted  with  her  and  her  niece,  had  complimented 
her  with  a  brilliant  from  his  finger,  of  much  greater 
value  than  all  she  had  touched  of  the  other.) 

Hie  aunt's  gall  was  on  float  to  reply,  when  a  servant 
brought  a  letter  into  the  room,  which  Leonora,  hear- 
ing it  came  from  Bellarmine,  with  great  eagerness 
opened,  and  read  as  follows :  — 

"  Most  divine  Creature,  —  The  wound  which  I  fear 
you  have  heard  I  received  from  my  rival  is  not  like  to 
be  so  fatal  as  those  shot  into  my  heart  wliich  have  been 
fired  from  your  eyes,  lout  brilliant.  Those  are  the  only 
cannons  by  which  I  am  to  fall ;  for  my  surgeon  gives 
[161] 

Vol.  1  «.  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

me  hopes  of  being  soon  able  to  attend  your  ruelU  ;  till 
when,  unless  you  would  do  me  an  honour  which  I  have 
scarce  the  hardiesse  to  think  of,  your  absence  will  be 
the  greatest  anguish  which  can  be  felt  by. 
Madam, 
Avec  toule  le  respecte  in  the  world. 

Your  most  obedient,  most  absolute 
Devote, 

"  Bellabminb." 

As  aoon  as  Leonora  perceived  such  hopes  of 
Bellarmine's  recovery,  and  that  the  gossip  Fame  had, 
according  to  custom,  so  enlarged  his  danger,  she 
presently  abandoned  all  further  thoughts  of  Horatio, 
and  was  soon  reconciled  to  her  aunt,  who  received  her 
again  into  favour,  with  a  more  Christian  forgiveness 
than  we  generally  meet  with.  Indeed,  it  is  possible 
she  might  be  a  little  alarmed  at  the  hints  which  her 
niece  had  given  her  concerning  the  presents.  She 
might  apprehend  such  rumours,  should  they  get 
abroad,  might  injure  a  reputation  which,  by  fre- 
quenting church  twice  a  day,  and  preserving  the 
utmost  rigour  and  strictness  in  her  countenance  and 
behaviour  for  many  years,  she  had  established. 

Leonora's  passion  returned  now  for  Bellarmine  with 
greater  force,  after  its  small  relaxation,  than  ever. 
She  proposed  to  her  aunt  to  make  him  a  visit  in 
his  confinement,  which  the  old  lady,  with  great 
and  commendable  prudence,  advised  her  to  decline : 
[162j 


THE    TALE    INTERRUPTED 

"  For,"  says  she,  "  should  any  accident  intervene  to 
prevent  your  intended  match,  too  forward  a  be- 
haviour with  this  lover  may  injure  you  in  the  eyes 
of  others.  Every  woman,  till  she  is  married,  ought 
to  consider  of,  and  provide  against,  the  possibility  of 
the  affair's  breaking  off."  Leonora  said,  "  She  should 
be  indifferent  to  whatever  might  happen  in  such  a 
case  ;  for  she  had  now  so  absolutely  placed  lier  affec- 
tions on  this  dear  man  (so  she  called  him),  that,  if  it 
was  her  misfortune  to  lose  him,  she  should  for  ever 
abandon  all  thoughts  of  mankind."  She,  therefore, 
resolved  to  visit  him,  notwithstanding  all  the  prudent 
advice  of  her  aunt  to  the  contrary,  and  that  very 
afternoon  executed  her  resolution. 

The  lady  was  proceeding  in  her  story,  when  the 
coach  drove  into  the  inn  where  the  company  were 
to  dine,  sorely  to  the  dissatisfaction  of  Mr.  Adams, 
whose  ears  were  the  most  hungry  part  about  him ;  he 
being,  as  the  reader  may  perhaps  guess,  of  an  insa- 
tiable curiosity,  and  heartily  desirous  of  hearing  the 
end  of  this  amour,  though  he  professed  he  could 
scarce  wish  success  to  a  lady  of  so  inconstant  a 
disposition. 


[163] 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

A  DREADFUL  QUARREL  WHICH  HAPPENED  AT  THE  INN 
WHERE  THE  COMPANY  DINED,  WITH  ITS  BLOODY 
CONSEQUENCES   TO   MR.    ADAMS. 

jA  S  soon  as  the  passengers  had  alighted  from 
/  ^k        the  coach,  Mr.  Adams,  as  was  his  cus- 
/      ^k      torn,  made  directly  to  the  kitchen,  where 
he  found  Joseph  sitting  by  the  fire,  and 
the  hostess  anointing  his  leg ;  for  the  horse  which 
Mr.  Adams  had  borrowed  of  his  clerk  had  so  violent 
a   propensity   to    kneeling,    that   one   would    have 
thought  it  had  been  his  trade,  as  well  as  his  master's  ; 
nor  would  he  always  give  any  notice  of  such  his 
intention  ;  he  was  often  found  on  his  knees  when  the 
rider  least  expected  it.     This  foible,  however,  was  of 
no  great  inconvenience  to  the  parson,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  it;  and,  as  his  legs  almost  touched   the 
ground  when  he  bestrode  the  beast,  had  but  a  little 
way  to  fall,  and  threw  himself  forward  on  such  occa- 
sions with  so  much  dexterity  that  he  never  received 
any  mischief;  the  horse  and  he   frequently  rolling 
many  paces'  distance,  and  afterguards  both  getting  up 
and  meeting  as  good  friends  as  ever. 
[164] 


JOSEPH'S    FALL 

Poor  Joseph,  who  had  not  been  used  to  such  kind 
of  cattle,  though  an  excellent  iiorseman,  did  not  so 
happily  disengage  himself;  but,  falling  with  his  leg 
under  the  beast,  received  a  violent  contusion,  to 
which  the  good  woman  was,  as  we  have  said,  apply- 
ing a  warm  hand,  with  some  camphorated  spirits, 
just  at  the  time  when  the  parson  entered  the  kitchen. 

He  had  scarce  expressed  his  concern  for  Joseph's 
misfortune  before  the  host  likewise  entered.  He  was 
by  no  means  of  Mr.  Tow-wouse\s  gentle  disposition  ; 
and  was,  indeed,  perfect  master  of  his  house,  and 
everything  in  it  but  his  guests. 

This  surly  fellow,  who  always  proportioned  his 
respect  to  the  appearance  of  a  traveller,  from  "  God 
bless  your  honour,"  down  to  plain  "  Coming  pres- 
ently," observing  his  wife  on  her  knees  to  a  footman, 
cried  out,  without  considering  his  circumstances, 
"  What  a  pox  is  the  woman  about  ?  why  don't  you 
mind  the  company  in  the  coach  ?  Go  and  ask  them 
what  they  will  have  for  dinner."  "  My  dear,"  says 
she,  "  you  know  they  can  have  nothing  but  what  Is 
at  the  fire,  which  will  be  ready  presently ;  and  really 
the  poor  young  man's  leg  is  very  much  bruised."  At 
which  words  she  fell  to  chafing  more  violently  than 
before  :  the  bell  then  happening  to  ring,  he  damn'd 
his  wife,  and  bid  her  go  in  to  the  company,  and  not 
stand  rubbing  there  all  day,  for  he  did  not  believe 
the  young  fellow's  leg  was  so  bad  as  he  pretended ; 
[  165  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

and  if  it  was,  within  twenty  miles  he  would  find  a 
surgeon  to  cut  it  off.  Upon  these  words,  Adams 
fetched  two  strides  across  the  room ;  and  snapping 
his  fingers  over  his  head,  muttered  aloud,  He  would 
excommunicate  such  a  wretch  for  a  farthing,  for  he 
believed  the  devil  had  more  humanity.  These  words 
occasioned  a  dialogue  between  Adams  and  the  host, 
in  which  there  were  two  or  three  sharp  replies,  till 
Joseph  bade  the  latter  know  how  to  behave  himself 
to  his  betters.  At  which  the  host  (having  first 
strictly  surveyed  Adams)  scornfully  repeating  the 
word  "  betters,"  flew  into  a  rage,  and,  telling  Joseph 
he  was  as  able  to  walk  out  of  his  house  as  he  had  been 
to  walk  into  it,  offered  to  lay  violent  hands  on  him  ; 
which  perceiving,  Adams  dealt  him  so  sound  a  com- 
pliment over  his  face  with  his  fist,  that  the  blood 
immediately  gushed  out  of  his  nose  in  a  stream. 
The  host,  being  unwilling  to  be  outdone  in  courtesy, 
especially  by  a  person  of  Adams's  figure,  returned 
the  favour  with  so  much  gratitude,  that  the  par- 
son's nostrils  began  to  look  a  little  redder  than  usual. 
Upon  which  he  again  assailed  his  antagonist,  and 
with  another  stroke  laid  him  sprawling  on  the  floor. 
The  hostess,  who  was  a  better  wife  than  so  surly  a 
husband  deserved,  seeing  her  husband  all  bloody  and 
stretched  along,  hastened  presently  to  his  assistance, 
or  rather  to  revenge  the  blow,  which,  to  all  appear- 
ance, was  the  last  he  would  ever  receive  ;  when,  lo ! 
[166] 


A    QUARREL    AT    THE    INN 

a  pan  full  of  hog's  blood,  which  unluckily  stood  on 
the  dresser,  presented  itself  first  to  her  hands.  She 
seized  it  in  her  fury,  and  without  any  reflection,  dis- 
charged it  into  the  parson's  face ;  and  with  so  good 
an  aim,  that  much  the  greater  part  first  saluted  his 
countenance,  and  trickled  thence  in  so  large  a  cur- 
rent down  to  his  beard,  and  over  his  garments,  that 
a  more  homble  spectacle  was  hardly  to  be  seen,  or 
even  imagined.  All  which  was  perceived  by  Mrs. 
Slipslop,  who  entered  the  kitchen  at  that  instant. 
This  good  gentlewoman,  not  being  of  a  temper  so 
extremely  cool  and  patient  as  perhaps  was  required 
to  ask  many  questions  on  this  occasion,  flew  with 
great  impetuosity  at  the  hostess's  cap,  which,  to- 
gether with  some  of  her  hair,  she  plucked  from  her 
head  in  a  moment,  giving  her,  at  the  same  time, 
several  hearty  cufls  in  the  face  ;  which  by  frequent 
practice  on  the  inferior  servants,  she  had  learned 
an  excellent  knack  of  delivering  with  a  good  grace. 
Poor  Joseph  could  hardly  rise  from  his  chair;  the 
parson  was  employed  in  wiping  the  blood  from  his 
eyes,  which  had  entirely  blinded  him  ;  and  the  land- 
lord was  but  just  beginning  to  stir;  whilst  Mrs.  Slip- 
slop, holding  down  the  landlady's  face  with  her  left 
hand,  made  so  dexterous  an  use  of  her  right,  that  the 
poor  woman  began  to  roar,  in  a  key  which  alarmed 
all  the  company  in  the  inn. 

There  happened  to  be  in  the  inn,  at  this  time, 
[167] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

besides  the  ladies  who  arrived  in  the  stage-coach,  the 
two  gentlemen  who  were  present  at  Mr.  Tow-wouse's 
when  Joseph  was  detained  for  his  horse's  meat,  and 
whom  we  have  before  mentioned  to  have  stopt  at 
the  ale-house  with  Adams.  There  was  likewise  a 
gentleman  just  returned  from  his  travels  to  Italy  ; 
all  whom  the  hon'id  outcry  of  murder  presently 
brought  into  the  kitchen,  where  the  several  com- 
batants were  found  in  the  postures  already  described. 
It  was  now  no  difficulty  to  put  an  end  to  the  fray, 
the  conquerors  being  satisfied  with  the  vengeance 
they  had  taken,  and  the  conquered  having  no  appe- 
tite to  renew  the  fight.  The  principal  figure,  and 
which  engaged  the  eyes  of  all,  was  Adams,  who  was 
all  over  covered  with  blood,  which  the  whole  com- 
pany concluded  to  be  his  own,  and  consequently 
imagined  him  no  longer  for  this  world.  But  the 
host,  who  had  now  recovered  from  his  blow,  and  was 
risen  from  the  ground,  .soon  delivered  them  from 
this  apprehension,  by  damning  his  wife  for  wasting 
the  hog's  puddings,  and  tilling  her  all  would  have 
been  very  well  if  she  had  not  intermeddled,  like 
a  b —  as  she  was;  adding,  he  was  very  glad  the 
gentlewoman  had  paid  her,  though  not  half  what 
she  deserved.  The  poor  woman  had  indeed  fared 
much  the  worst ;  having,  besides  the  unmerciful  cuffs 
received,  lost  a  quantity  of  hair,  which  Mrs.  Slipslop 
in  triumph  held  in  her  left  hand. 
[168j 


THE    TRAVELLER'S    ADVICE 

The  traveller,  addressing  himself  to  Mrs.  Grave- 
airs,  desired  her  not  to  be  frightened ;  for  here  had 
been  only  a  little  boxing,  which  he  said,  to  their 
disgracia,  the  English  were  accustomata  to :  adding, 
it  must  be,  however,  a  sight  somewhat  strange  to 
him,  who  was  just  come  from  Italy ;  the  Italians  not 
being  addicted  to  the  citffardo,  but  bastonza^  says  he. 
He  then  went  up  to  Adams,  and  telling  him  he 
looked  like  the  ghost  of  Othello,  bid  him  not  shake 
his  gory-  locks  at  him,  for  he  could  not  say  he  did  it. 
Adams  very  innocently  answered,  "  Sir,  I  am  far  from 
accusing  you."  He  then  returaed  to  the  lady,  and 
cried,  "  I  find  the  bloody  gentleman  is  wno  insipido 
del  nuUo  senso.  Dammato  di  me,  if  I  have  seen  such 
a  spectacuh  in  my  M'ay  from  Viterbo."" 

One  of  the  gentlemen  having  learnt  from  the  host 
the  occasion  of  this  bustle,  and  being  assured  by  him 
that  Adams  had  struck  the  first  blow,  whispered  in 
his  ear,  "  He  'd  warrant  he  would  recover."  —  "  Re- 
cover !  master,""  said  the  host,  smiling :  "  yes,  yes,  I 
am  not  afraid  of  dying  with  a  blow  or  two  neither ; 
I  am  not  such  a  chicken  as  that."  —  "  Pugh  ! "  said 
the  gentleman,  "  I  mean  you  will  recover  damages 
in  that  action  which,  undoubtedly,  you  intend  to 
bring,  as  soon  as  a  writ  can  be  returned  from  Lon- 
don ;  for  you  look  like  a  man  of  too  much  spirit  and 
courage  to  suffer  any  one  to  beat  you  without  bring- 
ing your  action  against  him  :  he  must  be  a  scandalous 
[169  3 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

fellow  indeed  who  would  put  up  with  a  drubbing 
whilst  the  law  is  open  to  revenge  it ;  besides,  he  hath 
drawn  blood  from  you,  and  spoiled  your  coat ;  and 
the  jury  will  give  damages  for  that  too.  An  excel- 
lent new  coat  upon  my  word ;  and  now  not  worth  a 
shilling !  I  don't  care,"  continued  he,  "  to  inter- 
meddle in  these  cases ;  but  you  have  a  right  to  my 
evidence ;  and  if  I  am  sworn,  I  must  speak  the  truth. 
I  saw  you  sprawling  on  the  floor,  and  blood  gushing 
fi'om  your  nostrils.  You  may  take  your  own  opinion  ; 
but  was  I  in  your  circumstances,  every  di'op  of  my 
blood  should  convey  an  ounce  of  gold  into  my  pocket : 
remember  I  don't  advise  you  to  go  to  law;  but  if 
your  jury  were  Christians,  they  must  give  swinging 
damages.  That 's  all."  —  "  Master,"  cried  the  host, 
scratching  his  head,  "I  have  no  stomach  to  law,  I 
thank  you.  I  have  seen  enough  of  that  in  the  painsh, 
where  two  of  my  neighbours  have  been  at  law  about 
a  house,  till  they  have  both  lawed  themselves  into  a 
gaol."  At  which  words  he  turned  about,  and  began 
to  inquire  again  after  his  hog's  puddings  ;  nor  would 
it  probably  have  been  a  sufficient  excuse  for  his  wife, 
that  she  spilt  them  in  his  defence,  had  not  some  awe 
of  the  company,  especially  of  the  Italian  traveller, 
who  was  a  person  of  great  dignity,  withheld  his 
rage. 

Whilst  one  of  the  above-mentioned  gentlemen  was 
employed,  as  we  have  seen  him,  on  the  behalf  of  the 
[170] 


PEACE    RESTORED 

landlord,  the  other  was  no  less  hearty  on  the  side 
of  Mr.  Adams,  whom  he  advised  to  bring  his  action 
immediately.  He  said  the  assault  of  the  wife  was  in 
law  the  assault  of  the  husband,  for  they  were  but 
one  person  ;  and  he  was  liable  to  pay  damages,  which 
he  said  must  be  considerable,  where  so  bloody  a  dis- 
position appeared.  Adams  answered,  If  it  was  true 
that  they  were  but  one  pei'son,  he  had  assaulted  tlic 
wife;  for  he  was  sorry  to  own  he  had  struck  the 
husband  the  first  blow.  "  I  am  sorry  you  own  it 
too,"  cries  the  gentleman  ;  "  for  it  could  not  possibly 
appear  to  the  court ;  for  here  was  no  evidence  present 
but  the  lame  man  in  the  chair,  whom  I  suppose  to 
be  your  friend,  and  would  consequently  say  nothing 
but  what  made  for  you."  —  "  How,  sir,"''*  says  Adams, 
"  do  you  take  me  for  a  villain,  who  would  prosecute 
revenge  in  cold  blood,  and  use  unjustifiable  means  to 
obtain  it  ?  If  you  knew  me,  and  my  order,  I  should 
think  you  affronted  both.""  At  the  word  order,  the 
gentleman  stared  (for  he  was  too  bloody  to  be  of 
any  modern  order  of  knights) ;  and,  turning  hastily 
about,  said,  "  Every  man  knew  his  own  business." 

Matters  being  now  composed,  the  company  retired 
to  their  several  apartments ;  the  two  gentlemen  con- 
gratulating each  other  on  the  success  of  their  good 
offices  in  procuring  a  perfect  reconciliation  between 
the  contending  parties ;  and  the  traveller  went  to 
his  repast,  crying,  *'  As  the  Italian  poet  says  — 
[171] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

'  Je  vol  very  well  que  tutta  e  pace. 
So  send  up  dinner,  good  Boniface. ' " 

The  coachman  began  now  to  grow  importunate  with 
his  passengers,  whose  entrance  into  the  coach  was 
retarded  by  Miss  Grave-airs  insisting,  against  the 
remonstrance  of  all  the  rest,  that  she  would  not 
admit  a  footman  into  the  coach  ;  for  poor  Joseph 
was  too  lame  to  mount  a  horse.  A  young  lady,  who 
was,  as  it  seems,  an  earPs  gi'and-daughter,  begged  it 
with  almost  tears  in  her  eyes.  Mr.  Adams  prayed, 
and  Mrs.  Slipslop  scolded ;  but  all  to  no  purpose. 
She  said,  "She  would  not  demean  herself  to  ride 
with  a  footman  :  that  there  were  waggons  on  the 
road:  that  if  the  master  of  the  coach  desired  it, 
she  would  pay  for  two  places ;  but  would  suffer 
no  such  fellow  to  come  in.*"  —  "  Madam,"  says  Slip- 
slop, "  I  am  sure  no  one  can  refuse  another  coming 
into  a  stage-coach."  —  "I  don't  know,  madam,"  says 
the  lady  ;  "  I  am  not  much  used  to  stage-coaches ;  I 
seldom  travel  in  them."  —  "That  may  be,  madam," 
replied  Slipslop ;  "  very  good  people  do ;  and  some 
people"'s  betters,  for  aught  I  know."  Miss  Grave- 
airs  said,  "Some  folks  might  sometimes  give  their 
tongues  a  liberty,  to  some  people  that  were  their 
betters,  which  did  not  become  them ;  for  her  part, 
she  was  not  used  to  converse  with  servants."  Slip- 
slop returned,  "  Some  people  kept  no  servants  to 
converse  with ;  for  her  part,  she  thanked  Heaven  she 
[172] 


A    SMART    DIALOGUE 

lived  in  a  family  where  there  were  a  gi-eat  many,  and 
had  more  under  her  own  command  than  any  paultrv 
httle  gentlewoman  in  the  kingdom."  Miss  Grave- 
airs  cried,  "  She  believed  her  mistress  would  not 
encourage  such  saucine.ss  to  her  bettei's.'"  —  "  My 
betters,"  says  Slipslop,  "  who  is  my  betters,  pray  ?  " 
—  "I  am  your  betters,"  answered  Miss  Grave-airs, 
"  and  I  '11  acquaint  your  mistress."  —  At  which  Mrs. 
Slipslop  laughed  aloud,  and  told  her,  "  Her  lady  was 
one  of  the  great  gentry  ;  and  such  little  paultry 
gentlewomen  as  some  folks,  who  travelled  in  stage- 
coaches, would  not  easily  come  at  her." 

This  smart  dialogue  between  some  people  and 
some  folks  was  going  on  at  the  coach  door  when  a 
solemn  person,  riding  into  the  inn,  and  seeing  Miss 
Grave-airs,  immediately  accosted  her  with  "Dear 
child,  how  do  you  ?  "  She  presently  answei*ed,  "  O 
papa,  I  am  glad  you  have  overtaken  me."  —  "  So  am 
I,"  answered  he  ;  "  for  one  of  our  coaches  is  just  at 
hand ;  and,  there  being  room  for  you  in  it,  you  shall 
go  no  farther  in  the  stage  unless  you  desire  it."  — 
"How  can  you  imagine  I  should  desire  it?"  says 
she;  so,  bidding  Slipslop  ride  with  her  fellow,  if  she 
pleased,  she  took  her  father  by  the  hand,  who  was 
just  alighted,  and  walked  with  him  into  a  room. 

Adams  instantly  asked  the  coachman,  in  a  whisper, 
"  If  he  knew  who  the  gentleman  was  ?  "  The  coach- 
man answered,  "  He  was  now  a  gentleman,  and  kept 
[173] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

his  horse  and  man ;  but  times  are  altered,  master,"^ 
said  he ;  "I  remember  when  he  was  no  better  born 
than  myself/' — "Aye!  aye!"  says  Adams.  "My 
father  drove  the  squire's  coach,"  answered  he,  "  when 
that  very  man  rode  postillion;  but  he  is  now  his 
steward ;  and  a  great  gentleman.""  Adams  then 
snapped  his  fingers,  and  cried,  "  He  thought  she 
was  some  such  trollop." 

Adams  made  haste  to  acquaint  Mrs.  Slipslop  with 
this  good  news,  as  he  imagined  it ;  but  it  found  a 
reception  different  from  what  he  expected.  The 
prudent  gentlewoman,  who  despised  the  anger  of 
Miss  Grave-airs  whilst  she  conceived  her  the  daughter 
of  a  gentleman  of  small  fortune,  now  she  heard  her 
alliance  with  the  upper  servants  of  a  great  family  in 
her  neighbourhood,  began  to  fear  her  interest  with 
the  mistress.  She  wished  she  had  not  carried  the 
dispute  so  far,  and  began  to  think  of  endeavouring 
to  reconcile  herself  to  the  young  lady  before  she  left 
the  inn  ;  when,  luckily,  the  scene  at  London,  which 
the  reader  can  scarce  have  forgotten,  presented  itself 
to  her  mind,  and  comforted  her  with  such  assurance, 
that  she  no  longer  apprehended  any  enemy  with  her 
mistress. 

Everything    being  now    adjusted,    the   company 

entered  the  coach,  which  was  just  on  its  departure, 

when  one  lady  recollected  she  had  left  her  fan,  a 

second  her  gloves,  a  third  a  snuff-box,  and  a  fourth  a 

[174] 


SCANDAL 

smelling-bottle  behind  her  ;  to  find  all  which  occa- 
sioned some  delay  and  much  swearing  to  the 
coachman. 

As  soon  as  the  coach  had  left  the  inn,  the  women 
all  together  fell  to  the  character  of  Miss  Grave-airs ; 
whom  one  of  them  declared  she  had  suspected  to 
be  some  low  creature,  from  the  beginning  of  their 
journey,  and  another  affirmed  she  had  not  even  the 
looks  of  a  gentlewoman  :  a  third  waiTanted  she  was 
no  better  than  she  should  be ;  and,  turning  to  the 
lady  who  had  related  the  story  in  the  coach,  said, 
"  Did  you  ever  hear,  madam,  anything  so  prudish  as 
her  remarks  ?  Well,  deliver  me  from  the  censori- 
ousness  of  such  a  prude."  The  fourth  added,  "  O 
madam !  all  these  creatures  are  censorious ;  but  for 
my  part,  I  wonder  where  the  wretch  was  bred ;  indeed, 
I  must  own  I  have  seldom  conversed  with  these  mean 
kind  of  people,  so  that  it  may  appear  stranger  to 
me ;  but  to  refuse  the  general  desire  of  a  whole 
company  had  something  in  it  so  astonishing,  that, 
for  my  part,  I  own  I  should  hardly  believe  it  if 
my  own  ears  had  not  been  witnesses  to  it."  —  "  Yes, 
and  so  handsome  a  young  fellow,"  cries  Slipslop  ; 
*'  the  woman  must  have  no  compulsion  in  her :  I 
believe  she  is  more  of  a  Turk  than  a  Christian  ;  I  am 
certain,  if  she  had  any  Christian  woman''s  blood 
in  her  veins,  the  sight  of  such  a  young  fellow  must 
have  warmed  it.     Indeed,  there  are  some  wretched. 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

miserable  old  objects,  that  turn  one's  stomach  ;  I 
should  not  wonder  if  she  had  refused  such  a  one ; 
I  am  as  nice  as  herself,  and  should  have  cared  no 
more  than  herself  for  the  company  of  stinking  old 
fellows ;  but,  hold  up  thy  head,  Joseph,  thou  art 
none  of  those ;  and  she  who  hath  not  compulsion  for 
thee  is  a  Myhurametman,  and  I  will  maintain  it." 
This  conversation  made  Joseph  uneasy  as  well  as  the 
ladies ;  who,  perceiving  the  spirits  which  Mrs.  Slip- 
slop was  in  (for  indeed  she  was  not  a  cup  too  low), 
began  to  fear  the  consequence  ;  one  of  them  therefore 
desired  the  lady  to  conclude  the  story.  "  Aye, 
madam,""  said  Slipslop,  "  I  beg  your  ladyship  to  give 
us  that  story  you  commensated  in  the  morning;" 
which  request  that  well-bred  woman  immediately 
complied  with. 


[176] 


CHAPTER    SIX 

CONCLUSION   OF  THE    UNFORTUNATE  JILT. 

IEONORA,  having  once  broke  through  the 
bounds  which  custom  and  modesty  impose 
J  on  her  sex,  soon  gave  an  unbridled  indul- 
■^  gence  to  her  passion.  Her  visits  to  Bel- 
larmine  were  more  constant,  as  well  as  longer,  than 
his  surgeon*'s  :  in  a  word,  she  became  absolutely  his 
nurse ;  made  his  water-gruel,  administered  him  his 
medicines ;  and,  notwithstanding  the  prudent  advice 
of  her  aunt  to  the  contrary,  almost  intirely  resided 
in  her  wounded  lover's  apartment. 

The  ladies  of  the  town  began  to  take  her  conduct 
under  consideration :  it  was  the  chief  topic  of  dis- 
course at  their  tea-tables,  and  was  very  severely 
censured  by  the  most  part ;  especially  by  Lindamira, 
a  lady  whose  discreet  and  starch  carriage,  together 
with  a  constant  attendance  at  church  three  times  a 
day,  had  utterly  defeated  many  malicious  attacks  on 
her  own  reputation ;  for  such  was  the  envy  that 
Lindamira\s  virtue  had  attracted,  that,  notwith- 
standing her  OAvn  strict  behaviour  and  strict  enquiry 
[  177  3 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

into  the  lives  of  others,  she  had  not  been  able  to 
escape  being  the  mark  of  some  arrows  herself,  which, 
however,  did  her  no  injury  ;  a  blessing,  perhaps,  owed 
by  her  to  the  clergy,  who  were  her  chief  male  com- 
panions, and  with  two  or  three  of  whom  she  had  been 
barbarously  and  unjustly  calumniated. 

"  Not  so  unjustly  neither,  perhaps,""  says  Slipslop ; 
"  for  the  clergy  are  men,  as  well  as  other  folks." 

The  extreme  delicacy  of  Lindamira''s  virtue  was 
cruelly  hurt  by  those  freedoms  which  Leonora  allowed 
herself :  she  said,  "  It  was  an  affront  to  her  sex ;  that 
she  did  not  imagine  it  consistent  with  any  woman*'s 
honour  to  speak  to  the  creature,  or  to  be  seen  in  her 
company  ;  and  that,  for  her  part,  she  should  always 
refuse  to  dance  at  an  assembly  with  her,  for  fear  of 
contamination  by  taking  her  by  the  hand." 

But  to  return  to  my  story  :  as  soon  as  Bellarmine 
was  recovered,  which  was  somewhat  within  a  month 
from  his  receiving  the  wound,  he  set  out,  according 
to  agreement,  for  Leonora"'s  fathers,  in  order  to 
propose  the  match,  and  settle  all  matters  with  him 
touching  settlements,  and  the  like. 

A  little  before  his  arrival  the  old  gentleman  had 
received  an  intimation  of  the  affair  by  the  following 
letter,  which  I  can  repeat  verbatim,  and  which,  they 
say,  was  written  neither  by  Leonora  nor  her  aunt, 
though  it  was  in  a  woman's  hand.  The  letter  was  in 
these  words :  — 

[178] 


LEONORA^S    FATHER 

"  SiRj  —  I  am  sorry  to  acquaint  you  that  your 
daughter,  Leonora,  hath  acted  one  of  the  basest  as  well 
as  most  simple  parts  with  a  young  gentleman  to  whom 
she  had  engaged  herself,  and  whom  she  hath  (pardon 
the  word)  jilted  for  another  of  inferior  fortune,  notwith- 
standing his  superior  figure.  You  may  take  what  meas- 
ures you  please  on  this  occasion ;  I  have  performed 
what  I  thought  my  duty  ;  as  I  have,  though  unknown 
to  you,  a  very  great  respect  for  your  family." 

The  old  gentleman  did  not  give  himself  tlie 
trouble  to  answer  this  kind  epistle  ;  nor  did  he  take 
any  notice  of  it,  after  he  had  read  it,  till  he  saw 
Bellarmine.  He  was,  to  say  the  truth,  one  of  those 
fathers  who  look  on  children  as  an  unhappy  con- 
sequence of  their  youthful  pleasures ;  which,  as  he 
would  have  been  delighted  not  to  have  had  attended 
them,  so  was  he  no  less  pleased  with  any  opportunity 
to  rid  himself  of  the  incumbrance.  He  passed,  in 
the  world's  language,  as  an  exceeding  good  father ; 
being  not  only  so  rapacious  as  to  rob  and  plunder 
all  mankind  to  the  utmost  of  his  power,  but  even 
to  deny  himself  the  conveniences,  and  almost  neces- 
saries, of  life  ;  which  his  neighbours  attributed  to  a 
desire  of  raising  immense  fortunes  for  his  children  : 
but  in  fact  it  was  not  so ;  he  heaped  up  money 
for  its  own  sake  only,  and  looked  on  his  children 
as  his  rivals,  who  were  to  enjoy  his  beloved  mis- 
tress when  he  was  incapable  of  possessing  her,  and 
[  1^9  3 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

which  he  would  have  been  much  more  charmed 
with  the  power  of  carrying  along  with  him ;  nor 
had  his  children  any  other  security  of  being  his  heirs 
than  that  the  law  would  constitute  them  such  with- 
out a  will,  and  that  he  had  not  affection  enough  for 
any  one  living  to  take  the  trouble  of  writing  one. 

To  this  gentleman  came  Bellarmine,  on  the  errand 
I  have  mentioned.  His  person,  his  equipage,  his 
family,  and  his  estate,  seemed  to  the  father  to  make 
him  an  advantageous  match  for  his  daughter :  he 
therefore  very  readily  accepted  his  proposals :  but 
when  Bellarmine  imagined  the  principal  affair  con- 
cluded, and  began  to  open  the  incidental  matters 
of  fortune,  the  old  gentleman  presently  changed  his 
countenance,  saying,  "  He  resolved  never  to  marry 
his  daughter  on  a  Smithfield  match ;  that  whoever 
had  love  for  her  to  take  her  would,  when  he  died, 
find  her  share  of  his  fortune  in  his  coffers ;  but  he 
had  seen  such  examples  of  undutifulness  happen 
from  the  too  early  generosity  of  parents,  that  he  had 
made  a  vow  never  to  part  with  a  shilling  whilst  he 
lived.^^  He  commended  the  saying  of  Solomon,  "  He 
that  spareth  the  rod  spoileth  the  child ; "  but  added, 
"he  might  have  likewise  asserted,  That  he  that 
spareth  the  purse  saveth  the  child."  He  then  ran 
into  a  discourse  on  the  extravagance  of  the  youth  of 
the  age ;  whence  he  launched  into  a  dissertation  on 
horses ;  and  came  at  length  to  commend  those  Bellar- 
[180] 


CONSIDERATIONS    OF    FORTUNE 

mine  drove.  That  fine  gentleman,  who  at  another 
season  would  have  been  well  enough  pleased  to  dwell 
a  little  on  that  subject,  was  now  ven'  eager  to  resume 
the  circumstance  of  fortune.  He  said,  "  He  had 
a  very  high  value  for  the  young  lady,  and  would 
receive  her  with  less  than  he  would  any  other  what- 
ever ;  but  that  even  his  love  to  her  made  some  regard 
to  worldly  matters  necessary  ;  for  it  would  be  a  most 
distracting  sight  for  him  to  see  her,  when  he  had 
the  honour  to  be  her  husband,  in  less  than  a  coach 
and  six."  The  old  gentleman  answered,  "  Four  will 
do,  four  will  do  ; ""  and  then  took  a  turn  from  horses 
to  extravagance  and  from  extravagance  to  horses,  till 
he  came  round  to  the  equipage  again ;  whither  he 
was  no  sooner  arrived  than  Bellarmine  brought  him 
back  to  the  point ;  but  all  to  no  purpose ;  he  made 
his  escape  from  that  subject  in  a  minute  ;  till  at  last 
the  lover  declared,  "  That  in  the  present  situation  of 
his  affairs  it  was  impossible  for  him,  though  he  loved 
Leonora  more  than  tout  k  monde,  to  marry  her  witli- 
out  any  fortune."  To  which  the  father  answered, 
"  He  was  sorry  that  his  daughter  must  lose  so  valu- 
able a  match  ;  that,  if  he  had  an  inclination,  at 
present  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  advance  a  shilling : 
that  he  had  had  great  losses,  and  been  at  gi-eat 
expenses  on  projects;  which,  though  he  had  great 
expectation  from  them,  had  yet  produced  him  noth- 
ing :  that  he  did  not  know  what  might  happen 
[  181  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

hereafter,  as  on  the  birth  of  a  son,  or  such  acci- 
dent ;  but  he  would  make  no  promise,  or  enter  into 
any  article,  for  he  would  not  break  his  vow  for  all 
the  daughters  in  the  world." 

In  short,  ladies,  to  keep  you  no  longer  in  suspense, 
Bellarmine,  having  tried  every  argument  and  per- 
suasion which  he  could  invent,  and  finding  them  all 
ineffectual,  at  length  took  his  leave,  but  not  in  order 
to  return  to  Leonora  ;  he  proceeded  directly  to  his 
own  seat,  whence,  after  a  few  days'"  stay,  he  returned 
to  Paris,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  French,  and  the 
honour  of  the  English  nation. 

But  as  soon  as  he  arrived  at  his  home  he  presently 
despatched  a  messenger  with  the  following  epistle  to 
Leonora :  — 

**  Adorable  and  Charmante,  —  I  am  sorry  to  have 
the  honour  to  tell  you  I  am  not  the  heureiix  person 
destined  for  your  divine  arms.  Your  papa  hath  told 
me  so  with  a  politesse  not  often  seen  on  this  side  Paris. 
You  may  perhaps  guess  his  manner  of  refusing  me.  Ah, 
mwt  Dieu  !  You  will  certainly  believe  me,  madam,  in- 
capable myself  of  delivering  this  irkte  message,  which  I 
intend  to  try  the  French  air  to  cure  the  consequences 
of.  A  jamais  !  Cceiir  !  Angel  Aitdiable!  If  your  papa 
obliges  you  to  a  marriage,  I  hope  ve  shall  see  you  at 
Paris ;  till  when,  the  wind  that  flows  from  thence  will 
be  the  warmest  dans  le  monde,  for  it  will  consist  almost 
entirely  of  my  sighs.    Adieu,  ma princesse  !     Ah,  F amour  ! 

"  Bellarminb." 
[182] 


LEONORA    DISCONSOLATE 

I  shall  not  attempt,  ladies,  to  describe  Leonora's 
condition  when  she  received  this  letter.  It  is  a 
picture  of  horror,  which  I  should  have  as  little  plea- 
sure in  drawing  as  you  in  beholding.  She  immedi- 
ately left  the  place  where  she  was  the  subject  of 
conversation  and  ridicule,  and  retired  to  that  house 
I  showed  you  when  I  began  the  story ;  where  she 
hath  ever  since  led  a  disconsolate  life,  and  deserves, 
perhaps,  pity  for  her  misfortunes,  more  than  our 
censure  for  a  behaviour  to  which  the  artifices  of  her 
aunt  very  probably  contributed,  and  to  which  very 
young  women  are  often  rendered  too  liable  by  that 
blameable  levity  in  the  education  of  our  sex. 

"  If  I  was  inclined  to  pity  her,"  said  a  young  lady 
in  the  coach,  "  it  would  be  for  the  loss  of  Horatio  ; 
for  I  cannot  discern  any  misfortune  in  her  missing 
such  a  husband  as  Bellarmine." 

"  ^^Tiy,  I  must  own,"  says  Slipslop,  "  the  gentleman 
was  a  little  false-hearted ;  but  howsumever,  it  was 
hard  to  have  two  lovers,  and  get  never  a  husband  at 
all.     But  pray,  madam,  what  became  of  Our-ashof'' 

He  remains,  said  the  lady,  still  unmamed,  and 
hath  applied  himself  so  strictly  to  his  business,  that 
he  hath  raised,  I  hear,  a  very  considerable  fortune. 
And  what  is  remarkable,  they  say  he  never  hears 
the  name  of  Leonora  without  a  sigh,  nor  hath  ever 
uttered  one  syllable  to  charge  her  with  her  ill-con- 
duct towards  him. 

[183] 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 

A  VERY  SHORT  CHAPTER,  IN  WHICH   PARSON  ADAMS  WENT 
A  GREAT  WAY. 

THE  lady,  having  finished  her  story, 
received  the  thanks  of  the  company; 
and  now  Joseph,  putting  his  head  out 
of  the  coach,  cried  out,  *'  Never  believe 
me  if  yonder  be  not  our  parson  Adams  walking  along 
without  his  horse  !  "  —  "  On  my  word,  and  so  he  is," 
says  Slipslop :  "  and  as  sure  as  twopence  he  hath 
left  him  behind  at  the  inn.""  Indeed,  true  it  is,  the 
parson  had  exhibited  a  fresh  instance  of  his  absence 
of  mind ;  for  he  was  so  pleased  with  having  got 
Joseph  into  the  coach,  that  he  never  once  thought 
of  the  beast  in  the  stable ;  and,  finding  his  legs  as 
nimble  as  he  desired,  he  sallied  out,  brandishing  a 
crabstick,  and  had  kept  on  before  the  coach,  mend- 
ing and  slackening  his  pace  occasionally,  so  that  he 
had  never  been  much  more  or  less  than  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  distant  from  it. 

Mrs.  Slipslop  desired   the  coachman  to  overtake 
him,  which  he  attempted,  but  in  vain ;  for  the  faster 
[184] 


THE    PARSON'S    ADVENTURE 

he  drove  the  faster  ran  the  parson,  often  crying  out, 
"  Aye,  aye,  catch  me  if  you  can ;  '■"  till  at  length  the 
coachman  swore  he  would  as  soon  attempt  to  drive 
after  a  greyhound,  and,  giving  the  parson  two  or 
three  hearty  curses,  he  cry'  d,  "  Softly,  softly,  boys,"" 
to  his  horses,  which  the  civil  beasts  immediately 
obeyed. 

But  we  will  be  more  courteous  to  our  reader  than 
he  was  to  Mrs.  Slipslop ;  and,  leaving  the  coach  and 
its  company  to  pursue  their  journey,  we  will  carry 
our  reader  on  after  parson  Adams,  who  stretched 
forwards  without  once  looking  behind  him,  till,  hav- 
ing left  the  coach  full  three  miles  in  his  rear,  he 
came  to  a  place  where,  by  keeping  the  extremest 
track  to  the  right,  it  was  just  barely  possible  for  a 
human  creature  to  miss  his  way.  This  track,  however, 
did  he  keep,  as  indeed  he  had  a  wonderful  capacity 
at  these  kinds  of  bare  possibilities,  and,  travelling 
in  it  about  three  miles  over  the  plain,  he  arrived 
at  the  summit  of  a  hill,  whence  looking  a  great 
way  backwards,  and  perceiving  no  coach  in  sight, 
he  sat  himself  down  on  the  turf,  and,  pulling 
out  his  iEschylus,  determined  to  wait  here  for  its 
arrival. 

He  had  not  sat  long  here  before  a  gun  going  off 
very  near,  a  little  startled  him  ;  he  looked  up  and 
saw  a    gentleman   within   a  hundred   paces    taking 
up  a  partridge  which  he  had  just  shot. 
[185] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Adams  stood  up  and  presented  a  figure  to  the 
gentleman  which  would  have  moved  laughter  in 
many ;  for  his  cassock  had  just  again  fallen  down 
below  his  greatcoat,  that  is  to  say,  it  leached  his 
knees,  whereas  the  skirts  of  his  greatcoat  descended 
no  lower  than  half-way  down  his  thighs ;  but  the 
gentleman's  mirth  gave  way  to  his  surprize  at  behold- 
ing such  a  personage  in  such  a  place. 

Adams,  advancing  to  the  gentleman,  told  him  he 
hoped  he  had  good  sport,  to  which  the  other 
answered,  " Very  little."  —  "I  see,  sir,"  says  Adams, 
"  you  have  smote  one  partridge  ; "  to  which  the  sports- 
man made  no  reply,  but  proceeded  to  charge  his 
piece. 

Whilst  the  gun  was  charging,  Adams  remained  in 
silence,  which  he  at  last  broke  by  observing  that  it 
was  a  delightful  evening.  The  gentleman,  who  had 
at  first  sight  conceived  a  very  distasteful  opinion  of 
the  parson,  began,  on  perceiving  a  book  in  his  hand 
and  smoaking  likewise  the  information  of  the  cassock, 
to  change  his  thoughts,  and  made  a  small  advance  to 
conversation  on  his  side  by  saying,  "  Sir,  I  suppose 
you  are  not  one  of  these  parts  ?  " 

Adams  immediately  told  him,  "  No ;  that  he  was 
a  traveller,  and  invited  by  the  beauty  of  the  evening 
and  the  place  to  repose  a  little  and  amuse  himself 
with  reading.""  —  "I  may  as  well  repose  myself  too,"" 
said  the  sportsman,  "  for  I  have  been  out  this  whole 
[186] 


A    TALK    WITH    A    SPORTSMAN 

afternoon,  and  the  devil  a  bird  have  I  seen  till  I 
came  hither." 

"  Perhaps  then  the  game  is  not  very  plenty  here- 
abouts ?  "  cries  Adams.  "  No,  sir,''  said  the  gentle- 
man :  "  the  soldiers,  who  are  quartered  in  the 
neighbourhood,  have  killed  it  all."  — "  It  is  very 
probable,"  cries  Adams,  "  for  shooting  is  their  pro- 
fession." —  "  Aye,  shooting  the  game,"  answered  the 
other ;  "  but  I  don't  see  they  are  so  forward  to  shoot 
our  enemies.  I  don't  like  that  affair  of  Carthagena ; 
if  I  had  been  there,  I  believe  I  should  have  done 
other-guess  things,  d — n  me :  what 's  a  man's  life  when 
his  country  demands  it  ?  a  man  who  won't  sacrifice 
his  life  for  his  country  deserves  to  be  hanged,  d — n 
me."  \\1iich  words  he  spoke  with  so  violent  a 
gesture,  so  loud  a  voice,  so  strong  an  accent,  and  so 
fierce  a  countenance,  that  he  might  have  frightened 
a  captain  of  trained  bands  at  the  head  of  his  com- 
pany ;  but  Mr.  Adams  was  not  greatly  subject  to 
fear ;  he  told  him  intrepidly  that  he  very  mucli 
approved  his  virtue,  but  disliked  his  swearing,  and 
begged  him  not  to  addict  himself  to  so  bad  a  custom, 
without  which  he  said  he  might  fight  as  bravely  as 
Achilles  did.  Indeed  he  was  cliarmed  with  this 
discourse ;  he  told  the  gentleman  he  would  willingly 
have  gone  many  miles  to  have  met  a  man  of  his 
generous  way  of  thinking ;  that,  if  he  pleased  to  sit 
down,  he  should  be  greatly  delighted  to  commuae 
[18T] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

with  him  ;  for,  though  lie  was  a  clergyman,  he  would 
himself  be  ready,  if  thereto  called,  to  lay  down  his 
life  for  his  country. 

The  gentleman  sat  down,  and  Adams  by  him ; 
and  then  the  latter  began,  as  in  the  following  chap- 
ter, a  discourse  which  we  ha\e  placed  by  itself,  as  it 
is  not  only  the  most  curious  in  this  but  perhaps  in 
any  other  book. 


[188] 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 

A  NOTABLE  DISSERTATION  BY  MK.  ABRAHAM  ADAAIS  ; 
WHEREIN  THAT  GENTLEMAN  APPEARS  IN  A  POLIT- 
ICAL   LIGHT. 

I  DO  assure  you,  sir"  (says  he,  taking  the 
gentleman  by  the  hand),  "  I  am  heartily 
glad  to  meet  with  a  man  of  your  kidney  ; 
for,  though  I  am  a  poor  parson,  I  will  be 
bold  to  say  I  am  an  honest  man,  and  would  not  do 
an  ill  thing  to  be  made  a  bishop ;  nay,  though  it 
hath  not  fallen  in  my  way  to  offer  so  noble  a  sacrifice, 
I  have  not  been  without  opportunities  of  suffering 
for  the  sake  of  my  conscience,  I  thank  Heaven  for 
them ;  for  I  have  had  relations,  though  I  say  it, 
who  made  some  figure  in  the  world;  particularly  a 
nephew,  who  was  a  shopkeeper  and  an  alderman  of  a 
corporation.  He  was  a  good  lad,  and  was  under  my 
care  when  a  boy ;  and  I  believe  would  do  what  I  bade 
him  to  his  dying  day.  Indeed,  it  looks  like  extreme 
vanity  in  me  to  affect  being  a  man  of  such  consequence 
as  to  have  so  great  an  interest  in  an  alderman ;  but 
others  have  thought  so  too,  as  manifestly  appeared  by 
the  rector,  whose  curate  I  formerly  was,  sending  for 
[189  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

me  on  the  approach  of  an  election,  and  telHng  me,  if 
I  expected  to  continue  in  his  cure,  that  I  must  bring 
my  nephew  to  vote  for  one  Colonel  Courtly,  a  gentle- 
man whom  I  had  never  heard  tidings  of  till  tliat 
instant.  I  told  the  rector  I  had  no  power  over  my 
nephew's  vote  (God  forgive  me  for  such  prevarica- 
tion !) ;  that  I  supposed  he  would  give  it  according 
to  his  conscience  ;  that  I  would  by  no  means  endeavour 
to  influence  him  to  give  it  otherwise.  He  told  me  it 
was  in  vain  to  equivocate ;  that  he  knew  I  had  already 
spoke  to  him  in  favour  of  esquire  Fickle,  my  neigh- 
bour ;  and,  indeed,  it  was  true  I  had ;  for  it  was  at  a 
season  when  the  church  was  in  danger,  and  when  all 
good  men  expected  they  knew  not  what  would  happen 
to  us  all.  I  then  answered  boldly,  if  he  thought  I 
had  given  my  pi'omise,  he  affronted  me  in  proposing 
any  breach  of  it.  Not  to  be  too  prolix  ;  I  persevered, 
and  so  did  my  nephew,  in  the  esquire's  interest,  who 
was  chose  chiefly  through  his  means ;  and  so  I  lost 
my  curacy.  Well,  sir,  but  do  you  think  the  esquire 
ever  mentioned  a  word  of  the  church  ?  Ne  verhum 
quidem^  ut  ita  d'lcam :  within  two  yeai"s  he  got  a  place, 
and  hath  ever  since  lived  in  London  ;  where  I  have 
been  informed  (but  God  forbid  I  should  believe  that,) 
that  he  never  so  much  as  goeth  to  church.  I  re- 
mained, sir,  a  considerable  time  without  any  cure, 
and  lived  a  full  month  on  one  funeral  sermon,  which 
I  preached  on  the  indisposition  of  a  clergyman  ;  but 
[190] 


POLITICAL    liNFLUENCE 

this  by  the  bye.  At  last,  when  Mr.  Fickle  got  his 
place,  Colonel  Courtly  stood  again  ;  and  who  should 
make  interest  for  hira  but  Mr.  Fickle  himself!  that 
very  identical  Mr.  Fickle,  who  had  formerly  told  me 
the  colonel  was  an  enemy  to  both  the  church  and  state, 
had  the  confidence  to  sollicit  my  nephew  for  him ; 
and  the  colonel  himself  offered  me  to  make  me  chap- 
lain to  his  regiment,  which  I  refused  in  favour  of 
Sir  Oliver  Heaity,  who  told  us  he  would  sacrifice 
everything  to  his  country ;  and  I  believe  he  would, 
except  his  hunting,  which  he  stuck  so  close  to,  that 
in  five  years  together  he  went  but  twice  up  to  parlia- 
ment ;  and  one  of  those  times,  I  have  been  told,  never 
was  within  sight  of  the  House.  However,  he  was  a 
worthy  man,  and  the  best  friend  I  ever  had ;  for,  by 
his  interest  with  a  bishop,  he  got  me  replaced  into 
my  curacy,  and  gave  me  eight  pounds  out  of  his  own 
pocket  to  buy  me  a  gown  and  cassock,  and  furnish 
my  house.  He  had  our  interest  while  he  lived,  which 
was  not  many  years.  On  his  death  I  had  fresh  ap- 
plications made  to  me ;  for  all  the  world  knew  the 
interest  I  had  with  my  good  nephew,  who  now  was 
a  leading  man  in  the  corporation  ;  and  Sir  Thomas 
Booby,  buying  the  estate  which  had  been  Sir  Oliver's, 
proposed  himself  a  candidate.  He  was  then  a  young 
gentleman  just  come  from  his  travels  ;  and  it  did  me 
good  to  hear  him  discourse  on  affairs  which,  for  my 
part,  I  knew  nothing  of.     If  I  had  been  master  of  a 

[191] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

thousand  votes  he  should  have  had  them  all.  I 
engaged  my  nephew  in  his  interest,  and  he  was 
elected;  and  a  very  fine  parliament-man  he  was. 
They  tell  me  he  made  speeches  of  an  hour  long,  and, 
I  have  been  told,  very  fine  ones ;  but  he  could  never 
persuade  the  parliament  to  be  of  his  opinion.  Non 
omnia  possiimus  omnes.  He  promised  me  a  living, 
poor  man !  and  I  believe  I  should  have  had  it,  but 
an  accident  happened,  which  was,  that  my  lady  had 
promised  it  before,  unknown  to  him.  This,  indeed,  I 
never  heard  till  afterwards  ;  for  my  nephew,  who  died 
about  a  month  before  the  incumbent,  always  told  me  I 
might  be  assured  of  it.  Since  that  time.  Sir  Thomas, 
poor  man,  had  always  so  much  business,  that  he  never 
could  find  leisure  to  see  me.  I  believe  it  was  partly 
my  lady's  fault  too,  who  did  not  think  my  dress  good 
enough  for  the  gentry  at  her  table.  However,  I  must 
do  him  the  justice  to  say  he  never  was  ungi-ateful ; 
and  I  have  always  found  his  kitchen,  and  his  cellar 
too,  open  to  me:  many  a  time,  after  sei-vice  on  a 
Sunday  —  for  I  preach  at  four  churches  —  have  I 
recruited  my  spirits  with  a  glass  of  his  ale.  Since 
my  nephew's  death,  the  corporation  is  in  other 
hands ;  and  I  am  not  a  man  of  that  consequence  I 
was  formerly.  I  have  now  no  longer  any  talents  to 
lay  out  in  the  service  of  my  country ;  and  to  whom 
nothing  is  given,  of  him  can  nothing  be  required. 
However,  on  all  proper  seasons,  such  as  the  approach 
[192] 


THE    PARSON'S    SON 

of  an  election,  I  throw  a  suitable  dash  or  two  into 
my  sermons ;  which  I  have  the  pleasure  to  hear  is 
hot  disagreeable  to  Sir  Thomas  and  the  other  honest 
gentlemen  my  neighbours,  who  have  all  promised  me 
these  five  years  to  procure  an  ordination  for  a  son  of 
mine,  who  is  now  near  thirty,  hath  an  infinite  stock 
of  learning,  and  is,  I  thank  Heaven,  of  an  unexcep- 
tionable life  ;  though,  as  he  was  never  at  an  univer- 
sity, the  bishop  refuses  to  ordain  him.  Too  much 
care  cannot  indeed  be  taken  in  admitting  any  to  the 
sacred  office ;  though  I  hope  he  will  never  act  so  as 
to  be  a  disgrace  to  any  order,  but  will  serve  his  God 
and  his  country  to  the  utmost  of  his  power,  as  I  have 
endeavoured  to  do  before  him ;  nay,  and  will  lay 
down  his  life  whenever  called  to  that  pui'pose.  I  am 
sure  I  have  educated  him  in  those  principles ;  so  that 
I  have  acquitted  my  duty,  and  shall  have  nothing  to 
answer  for  on  that  account.  But  I  do  not  distrust 
him,  for  he  is  a  good  boy  ;  and  if  Providence  should 
throw  it  in  his  way  to  be  of  as  much  consequence  in 
a  public  light  as  his  father  once  was,  I  can  answer 
for  him  he  will  use  his  talents  as  honestly  as  I  have 
done." 


[193] 

Vol.  1 


CHAPTER    NINE 

IN  WHICH  THE  GENTLEMAN  DISCANTS  ON  BRAVERY  AND 
HEROIC  VIRTUE,  TILL  AN  UNLUCKY  ACCIDENT  PUTS 
AN    END   TO   THE    DISCOURSE. 

THE  gentleman  highly  commended  Mr. 
Adams  for  his  good  resolutions,  and 
told  him,  "  He  hoped  his  son  would 
tread  in  his  steps  ; "  adding,  "  that  if  he 
would  not  die  for  his  country,  he  would  not  be  worthy 
to  live  in  it.  I  'd  make  no  more  of  shooting  a  man 
that  would  not  die  for  his  country,  than  — 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  have  disinherited  a  nephew,  who 
is  in  the  army,  because  he  would  not  exchange  his 
commission  and  go  to  the  West  Indies.  I  believe 
the  rascal  is  a  coward,  though  he  pretends  to  be  in 
love  forsooth.  I  would  have  all  such  fellows  hanged, 
sir  ;  I  would  have  them  hanged."  Adams  answered, 
"  That  would  be  too  severe  ;  that  men  did  not  make 
themselves ;  and  if  fear  had  too  much  ascendance  in 
the  mind,  the  man  was  rather  to  be  pitied  than 
abhorred  ;  that  reason  and  time  might  teach  him  to 
subdue  it.^  He  said,  "  A  man  might  be  a  coward  at 
one  time^  and  brave  at  another.     Homer,"  says  he, 


BRAVERY    DISCUSSED 

"who  so  well  understood  and  copied  Nature,  hath 
taught  us  this  lesson ;  for  Paris  fights  and  Hector 
runs  away.  Nay,  we  have  a  mighty  instance  of  this 
in  the  history  of  later  ages,  no  longer  ago  than  the 
705th  year  of  Rome,  when  the  great  Pompey,  who 
had  won  so  many  battles  and  been  honoured  with  so 
many  triumphs,  and  of  whose  valour  several  authors, 
especially  Cicero  and  Paterculus,  have  formed  such 
elogiums ;  this  very  Pompey  left  the  battle  of 
Pharsalia  before  he  had  lost  it,  and  retreated  to  his 
tent,  where  he  sat  like  the  most  pusillanimous  rascal 
in  a  fit  of  despair,  and  yielded  a  victory,  which  was 
to  determine  the  empire  of  the  world,  to  Caesar.  I 
am  not  much  travelled  in  the  history  of  modem  times, 
that  is  to  say,  these  last  thousand  years ;  but  those 
who  are  can,  I  make  no  question,  furnish  you  with 
parallel  instances."  He  concluded,  therefore,  that, 
had  he  taken  any  such  hasty  resolutions  against  his 
nephew,  he  hoped  he  would  consider  better,  and  re- 
tract them.  The  gentleman  answered  with  great 
wai'mth,  and  talked  mucli  of  courage  and  his  coun- 
try, till,  perceiving  it  grew  late,  he  asked  Adams, 
*'  What  place  he  intended  for  that  night  ? "  He 
told  him,  "  He  waited  there  for  the  stage-coach."" 
—  "  The  stage-coach,  sir  !  "  said  the  gentleman  ; 
"  they  are  all  passed  by  long  ago.  You  may  see  the 
last  yourself  almost  thi-ee  miles  before  us."  —  "I  pro- 
test and  so  they  are,"  cries  Adams ;  "  then  I  must  make 
[195] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

haste  and  follow  them."  The  gentleman  told  him, 
he  would  hardly  be  able  to  overtake  them  ;  and  that, 
if  he  did  not  know  his  way,  he  would  be  in  danger  of 
losing  himself  on  the  downs,  for  it  would  be  presently 
dark  ;  and  he  might  ramble  about  all  night,  and  per- 
haps find  himself  farther  from  his  journey's  end  in 
the  morning  than  he  was  now.  He  advised  him, 
therefore,  "to  accompany  him  to  his  house,  which 
was  very  little  out  of  his  way,'*  assuring  him  "  that 
he  would  find  some  country  fellow  in  his  parish  who 
would  conduct  him  for  sixpence  to  the  city  where  he 
was  going."  Adams  accepted  this  proposal,  and  on 
they  travelled,  the  gentleman  renewing  his  discourse 
on  courage,  and  the  infamy  of  not  being  ready,  at  all 
times,  to  sacrifice  our  lives  to  our  country.  Night 
overtook  them  much  about  the  same  time  as  they 
arrived  near  some  bushes;  whence,  on  a  sudden, they 
heard  the  most  violent  shrieks  imaginable  in  a  female 
voice.  Adams  offered  to  snatch  the  gun  out  of  his 
companion's  hand.  "  What  are  you  doing  ? "  said 
he.  "  Doing ! "  said  Adams  ;  "  I  am  hastening  to 
the  assistance  of  the  poor  creature  whom  some 
villains  are  murdering."  —  "  You  are  not  mad  enough, 
I  hope,"  says  the  gentleman,  trembling ;  "  do  you  con- 
sider this  gun  is  only  charged  with  shot,  and  that  the 
robbers  are  most  probably  furnished  with  pistols 
loaded  with  bullets  ?  This  is  no  business  of  ours ; 
let  us  make  as  much  haste  as  possible  out  of  the  way, 
[196] 


THE    RESCUE 

or  we  may  fall  into  their  hands  ourselves.''  The 
shrieks  now  increasing,  Adams  made  no  answer,  but 
snapt  his  fingers,  and,  brandishing  his  crabstick,  made 
directly  to  the  place  whence  the  voice  issued  ;  and 
the  man  of  courage  made  as  much  expedition  towards 
his  own  home,  whither  he  escaped  in  a  very  short 
time  without  once  looking  behind  him  ;  where  we 
will  leave  him,  to  contemplate  his  own  bravery,  and 
to  censure  the  want  of  it  in  others,  and  return  to  the 
good  Adams,  who,  on  coming  up  to  the  place  whence 
the  noise  proceeded,  found  a  woman  struggling  with 
a  man,  who  had  thrown  her  on  the  ground,  and  had 
almost  overpowei*ed  her.  The  great  abilities  of  Mr. 
Adams  were  not  necessary  to  have  formed  a  right 
judgment  of  this  affair  on  the  first  sight.  He  did  not, 
therefore,  want  the  entreaties  of  the  poor  wretch  to 
assist  her ;  but,  lifting  up  his  crabstick,  he  immedi- 
ately levelled  a  blow  at  that  part  of  the  ravisher's  head 
where,  according  to  the  opinion  of  the  ancients,  the 
brains  of  some  persons  are  deposited,  and  which  he 
had  undoubtedly  let  forth,  had  not  Nature  (wlio,  as 
wise  men  have  observed,  equips  all  creatures  with 
what  is  most  expedient  for  them)  taken  a  provident 
cai-e  (as  she  always  doth  with  those  she  intends  for 
encounters)  to  make  this  part  of  the  head  three  times 
as  thick  as  those  of  ordinary  men  who  are  designed 
to  exercise  talents  which  are  vulgarly  called  rational, 
and  for  whom,  as  brains  are  necessary,  she  is  obliged 
[  197  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

to  leave  some  room  for  them  in  the  cavity  of  the 
skull ;  whereas,  those  ingredients  being  entirely  use- 
less to  persons  of  the  heroic  calHng,  she  hath  an 
opportunity  of  thickening  the  bone,  so  as  to  make  it 
less  subject  to  any  impression,  or  liable  to  be  cracked 
or  broken :  and  indeed,  in  some  who  are  predes- 
tined to  the  command  of  armies  and  empires,  she 
i  is  supposed  sometimes  to  make  that  part  per- 
fectly  solid.     OKG-^SVA 

As  a  game  cock,  when  engaged  in  amorous  toying 
with  a  hen,  if  perchance  he  espies  another  cock  at 
hand,  immediately  quits  his  female,  and  opposes 
himself  to  his  rival,  so  did  the  ravisher,  on  the  in- 
formation of  the  crabstick,  immediately  leap  from 
the  woman  and  hasten  to  assail  the  man.  He  had 
no  weapons  but  what  Nature  had  fuinished  him  with. 
However,  he  clenched  his  fist,  and  presently  darted 
it  at  that  part  of  Adams's  breast  where  the  heart 
is  lodged.  Adams  staggered  at  the  violence  of  the 
blow,  when,  thi-owing  away  his  staff,  he  likewise 
clenched  that  fist  which  we  have  before  commemo- 
rated, and  would  have  discharged  it  full  in  the  breast 
of  his  antagonist,  had  he  not  dexterously  caught  it 
with  his  left  hand,  at  the  same  time  darting  his  head 
(which  some  modern  heroes  of  the  lower  class  use, 
like  the  battering-ram  of  the  ancients,  for  a  weapon 
of  offence  ;  another  reason  to  admire  the  cunningness 
of  Nature,  in  composing  it  of  those  impenetrable 
[198] 


MR.    ADAMS    VICTORIOUS 

materials)  ;  dashing  his  head,  I  say,  into  the  stomach 
of  Adams,  he  tumbled  him  on  his  back ;  and,  not 
having  any  regard  to  the  laws  of  heroism,  which 
would  have  restrained  him  from  any  farther  attack 
on  his  enemy  till  he  was  again  on  his  legs,  he  threw 
himself  upon  him,  and,  laying  hold  on  the  ground 
with  his  left  hand,  he  with  his  riglit  belaboured  tlie 
body  of  Adams  till  he  was  weary,  and  indeed  till  he 
concluded  (to  use  the  language  of  fighting)  "that 
he  had  done  his  business ; '"  or,  in  the  language  of 
poetry,  "  that  he  had  sent  him  to  the  shades  below  • " 
in  plain  English,  "  that  he  was  dead." 

But  Adams,  who  was  no  chicken,  and  could  bear 
a  drubbing  as  well  as  any  boxing  champion  in  the 
universe,  lay  still  only  to  Avatch  his  opportunity ; 
and  now,  perceiving  his  antagonist  to  pant  with  his 
labours,  he  exerted  his  utmost  force  at  once,  and 
with  such  success  that  he  overturned  him,  and  became 
his  superior ;  when,  fixing  one  of  his  knees  in  his 
bieast,  he  cried  out  in  an  exulting  voice,  "  It  is  my 
turn  now  ; "  and,  after  a  few  minutes'  constant  appli- 
cation, he  gave  him  so  dexterous  a  blow  just  under 
his  chin  that  the  fellow  no  longer  retained  any 
motion,  and  Adams  began  to  fear  he  had  struck  him 
once  too  often  ;  for  he  often  asserted  "  he  should  be 
concenied  to  have  the  blood  of  even  the  wicked  upon 
him." 

Adams  got  up  and  called  aloud  to  the  young 
[199] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

woman.  "  Be  of  good  cheer,  damsel,""  said  he,  "you 
are  no  longer  in  danger  of  your  ravisher,  who,  I  am 
terribly  afraid,  lies  dead  at  my  feet ;  but  God  forgive 
me  what  I  have  done  in  defence  of  innocence ! " 
The  poor  wretch,  who  had  been  some  time  in 
recovering  strength  enough  to  rise,  and  had  after- 
wards, during  the  engagement,  stood  trembling, 
being  disabled  by  fear  even  from  running  away, 
hearing  her  champion  was  victorious,  came  up  to 
him,  but  not  without  apprehensions  even  of  her 
deliverer  ;  which,  however,  she  was  soon  relieved  from 
by  his  courteous  behaviour  and  gentle  words.  They 
were  both  standing  by  the  body,  which  lay  motion- 
less on  the  ground,  and  which  Adams  wished  to  see 
stir  much  more  than  the  woman  did,  when  he 
earnestly  begged  her  to  tell  him  "  by  what  misfor- 
tune she  came,  at  such  a  time  of  night,  into  so  lonely 
a  place."  She  acquainted  him,  "  She  was  travelling 
towards  London,  and  had  accidentally  met  with  the 
person  from  whom  he  had  delivered  her,  who  told 
her  he  was  likewise  on  his  journey  to  the  same  place, 
and  would  keep  her  company  ;  an  offer  which,  sus- 
pecting no  harm,  she  had  accepted  ;  that  he  told  her 
they  were  at  a  small  distance  from  an  inn  where 
she  might  take  up  her  lodging  that  evening,  and  he 
would  show  her  a  nearer  way  to  it  than  by  following 
the  road ;  that  if  she  had  suspected  him  (which  she 
did  not,  he  spoke  so  kindly  to  her),  being  alone  on 
[200] 


TRUST    IN    PROVIDENCE 

these  dovns  in  the  dark,  she  had  no  human  means 
to  avoid  him  ;  that,  therefore,  she  put  her  whole 
trust  in  Providence,  and  walked  on,  expecting  every 
moment  to  arrive  at  the  inn ;  when  on  a  sudden, 
being  come  to  those  bushes,  he  desired  her  to  stop, 
and  after  some  rude  kisses,  which  she  resisted,  and 
some  entreaties,  which  she  rejected,  he  laid  violent 
hands  on  her,  and  was  attempting  to  execute 
his  wicked  will,  when,  she  thanked  G — ,  he  timely 
came  up  and  prevented  him."  Adams  encouraged 
her  for  saying  she  had  put  her  whole  trust  in  Provi- 
dence, and  told  her,  "  He  doubted  not  but  Providence 
had  sent  him  to  her  deliverance,  as  a  reward  for  that 
trust.  He  wished  indeed  he  had  not  deprived  the 
wicked  wretch  of  life,  but  G — ^'s  will  be  done ;  "^ 
said,  "  He  hoped  the  goodness  of  his  intention  would 
excuse  him  in  the  next  world,  and  he  trusted  in  her 
evidence  to  acquit  him  in  this."  He  was  then  silent, 
and  began  to  consider  with  himself  whether  it  would 
be  properer  to  make  his  escape,  or  to  deliver  him- 
self into  the  hands  of  justice;  which  meditation 
ended  as  the  reader  will  see  in  the  next  chapter. 


[201] 


CHAPTER    TEN 

GIVING  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  STRANGE  CATASTROPHE  OF 
THE  PRECEDING  ADVENTURE,  WHICH  DREW  POOR 
ADAMS  INTO  TRESH  CALAMITIES  ;  AND  WHO  THE 
WOMAN  WAS  WHO  OWED  THE  PRESERVATION  OF 
HER   CHASTITY  TO    HIS    VICTORIOUS    ARM. 

THE  silence  of  Adams,  added  to  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  and  loneliness  of  the 
place,  struck  dreadful  apprehension  into 
the  poor  woman's  mind  ;  she  began  to 
fear  as  great  an  enemy  in  her  deliverer  as  he  had 
delivered  her  from  ;  and  as  she  had  not  light  enough 
to  discover  the  age  of  Adams,  and  the  benevolence 
visible  in  his  countenance,  she  suspected  he  had  used 
her  as  some  very  honest  men  have  used  their  country  ; 
and  had  rescued  her  out  of  the  hands  of  one  rifler  in 
order  to  rifle  her  himself.  Such  were  the  suspicions 
she  drew  from  his  silence  ;  but  indeed  they  were  ill- 
grounded.  He  stood  over  his  vanquished  enemy, 
wisely  weighing  in  his  mind  the  objections  which 
might  be  made  to  either  of  the  two  methods  of  pro- 
ceeding mentioned  in  the  last  chapter,  his  judgment 
sometimes  inclining  to  the  one,  and  sometimes  to  the 
[202] 


ARRIVAL    OF    THE    SPORTSMEN 

other ;  for  both  seemed  to  him  so  equally  advisable 
and  so  equally  dangerous,  that  probably  he  would 
have  ended  his  days,  at  least  two  or  three  of  them, 
on  that  very  spot,  before  he  had  taken  any  resolu- 
tion ;  at  length  he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  spied  a 
light  at  a  distance,  to  which  he  instantly  addressed 
himself  with  Heus  tu^  traveller^  heus  tu  !  He  pres- 
ently heard  several  voices,  and  perceived  the  light 
approaching  toward  him.  The  persons  who  attended 
the  light  began  some  to  laugh,  others  to  sing,  and 
others  to  hollow,  at  which  the  woman  testified  some 
fear  (for  she  had  concealed  her  suspicions  of  the 
parson  himself) ;  but  Adams  said,  "  Be  of  good  cheer, 
damsel,  and  repose  thy  trust  in  the  same  Provi- 
dence which  hath  hitherto  protected  thee,  and  never 
will  forsake  the  innocent."  These  people,  who  now 
approached,  were  no  other,  reader,  than  a  set  of 
young  fellows,  who  came  to  these  bushes  in  pursuit 
of  a  diversion  which  they  call  bird-batting.  This,  if 
you  are  ignorant  of  it  (as  perhaps  if  thou  hast  never 
travelled  beyond  Kensington,  Islington,  Hackney,  or 
the  Borough,  thou  mayst  be),  1  will  inform  thee, 
is  performed  by  holding  a  large  clap-net  before  a 
lanthorn,  and  at  the  same  time  beating  the  bushes ; 
for  the  birds,  when  they  are  disturbed  from  their 
places  of  rest,  or  roost,  immediately  make  to  the 
light,  and  so  are  inticed  within  the  net.  Adams 
immediately  told  them  what  happened,  and  desired 
[203] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

them  to  hold  the  lanthom  to  the  face  of  the  man  on 
the  ground,  for  he  feared  he  had  smote  him  fatally. 
But  indeed  his  fears  were  frivolous  ;  for  the  fellow, 
though  he  had  been  stunned  by  the  last  blow  he 
received,  had  long  since  recovered  his  senses,  and, 
finding  himself  quit  of  Adams,  had  listened  atten- 
tively to  the  discourse  between  him  and  the  young 
woman  ;  for  whose  departure  he  had  patiently  waited, 
that  he  might  likewise  withdraw  himself,  having  no 
longer  hopes  of  succeeding  in  his  desires,  which  were 
moreover  almost  as  well  cooled  by  Mr.  Adams  as 
they  could  have  been  by  the  young  woman  herself 
had  he  obtained  his  utmost  wish.  This  fellow,  who 
had  a  readiness  at  improving  any  accident,  thought 
he  might  now  play  a  better  part  than  that  of  a  dead 
man ;  and,  accordingly,  the  moment  the  candle  was 
held  to  his  face  he  leapt  up,  and,  laying  hold  on 
Adams,  cried  out,  "No,  villain,  I  am  not  dead, 
though  you  and  your  wicked  whore  might  well  think 
me  so,  after  the  barbarous  cruelties  you  have  ex- 
ercised on  me.  Gentlemen,"*'  said  he,  '*  you  are  luckily 
come  to  the  assistance  of  a  poor  traveller,  who  would 
otherwise  have  been  robbed  and  murdered  by  this  vile 
man  and  woman,  who  led  me  hither  out  of  my  way 
from  the  high-road,  and  both  falling  on  me  have  used 
me  as  you  see."'''  Adams  was  going  to  answer,  when 
one  of  the  young  fellows  cried,  "  D — n  them,  let 's 
carry  them  both  before  the  justice."  The  poor  woman 
[204] 


FRESH    CALAMITIES 

began  to  tremble,  and  Adams  lifted  up  his  voice,  but 
in  vain.  Three  or  four  of  them  laid  hands  on  him  ; 
and  one  holding  the  lanthorn  to  his  face,  they  all 
agreed  he  had  the  most  villainous  countenance  they 
ever  beheld ;  and  an  attorney's  clerk,  who  was  of  the 
company,  declared  he  was  sure  he  had  remembered 
him  at  the  bar.  As  to  the  woman,  her  hair  was 
dishevelled  in  the  struggle,  and  her  nose  had  bled ; 
so  that  they  could  not  perceive  whether  she  was  hand- 
some or  ugly,  but  they  said  her  fright  plainly  dis- 
covered her  guilt.  And  searching  her  pockets,  as 
they  did  those  of  Adams,  for  money,  which  the 
fellow  said  he  had  lost,  they  found  in  her  pocket  a 
purse  with  some  gold  in  it,  which  abundantly  con- 
vinced them,  especially  as  the  fellow  offered  to  swear 
to  it.  Mr.  Adams  was  found  to  have  no  more  than 
one  halfpenny  about  him.  This  the  clerk  said, 
"  was  a  great  presumption  that  he  was  an  old  offender, 
by  cunningly  giving  all  the  booty  to  the  woman." 
To  which  all  the  rest  readily  assented. 

This  accident  promising  them  better  sport  than 
what  they  had  proposed,  they  quitted  their  intention 
of  catching  birds,  and  unanimously  resolved  to  pro- 
ceed to  the  justice  with  the  offenders.  Being  in- 
formed what  a  desperate  fellow  Adams  was,  they 
tied  his  hands  behind  him  ;  and,  having  hid  their 
nets  among  the  bushes,  and  the  lanthorn  being 
carried  before  them,  tliey  placed  the  two  prisonei's 
[205] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

in  their  front,  and  then  began  their  march ;  Adams 
not  only  submitting  patiently  to  his  ovm  fate,  but 
comforting  and  encouraging  his  companion  under 
her  sufferings. 

Whilst  they  were  on  their  way  the  clerk  in- 
formed the  rest  that  this  adventure  would  prove  a 
very  beneficial  one  ;  for  that  they  would  all  be  entitled 
to  their  proportions  of  .£'80  for  apprehending  the 
robbers.  This  occasioned  a  contention  concerning 
the  parts  which  they  had  severally  borne  in  taking 
them ;  one  insisting  he  ought  to  have  the  greatest 
share,  for  he  had  first  laid  his  hands  on  Adams ; 
another  claiming  a  superior  part  for  having  first  held 
the  lanthom  to  the  man''s  face  on  the  ground,  by 
which,  he  said,  **the  whole  was  discovered,"  The 
clerk  claimed  four-fifths  of  the  reward  for  having 
proposed  to  search  the  prisoners,  and  likewise  the 
carrying  them  before  the  justice :  he  said,  "  Indeed, 
in  strict  justice,  he  ought  to  have  the  whole."  These 
claims,  however,  they  at  last  consented  to  refer  to  a 
future  decision,  but  seemed  all  to  agree  that  the 
clerk  was  entitled  to  a  moiety.  They  then  debated 
what  money  should  be  allotted  to  the  young  fellow 
who  had  been  employed  only  in  holding  the  nets. 
He  very  modestly  said,  "  That  he  did  not  apprehend 
any  large  proportion  would  fall  to  his  .share,  but 
hoped  they  would  allow  him  something ;  he  desired 
them  to  consider  that  they  had  assigned  their  nets 
[  206  ] 


RESIGNATION 

to  his  care,  which  prevented  him  from  being  as 
forward  as  any  in  laying  hold  of  the  robbers ""  (for 
so  those  innocent  people  were  called) ;  "  that  if  he 
had  not  occupied  the  nets,  some  other  must;***  con- 
cluding, however,  "  that  he  should  be  contented  with 
the  smallest  share  imaginable,  and  should  think  that 
rather  their  bounty  than  his  merit."  But  they  were 
all  unanimous  in  excluding  him  from  any  part  what- 
ever, the  clerk  particularly  swearing,  "  If  they  gave 
him  a  shilling  they  might  do  what  they  pleased  with 
the  rest ;  for  he  would  not  concern  himself  with  the 
affair."  This  contention  was  so  hot,  and  so  totally  en- 
gaged the  attention  of  all  the  parties,  that  a  dexterous 
nimble  thief,  had  he  been  in  Mr.  Adams's  situation, 
would  have  taken  care  to  have  given  the  justice  no 
trouble  that  evening.  Indeed,  it  required  not  the 
artof  a  Sheppard  to  escape,  especially  as  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night  would  have  so  much  befriended 
him ;  but  Adams  trusted  rather  to  his  innocence 
than  his  heels,  and,  without  thinking  of  flight,  which 
was  easy,  or  resistance  (which  was  impossible,  as  there 
were  six  lusty  young  fellows,  besides  the  villain  him- 
self, present),  he  walked  with  perfect  resignation  the 
way  they  thought  proper  to  conduct  him. 

Adams  frequently  vented  himself  in  ejaculations 

during  their  journey  ;  at  last,  poor  Joseph  Andrews 

occurring  to  his  mind,  he  could  not  refrain  sighing 

forth  his  name,  which  being  heard  by  his  companion 

[207] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

in  affliction,  she  cried  with  some  veliemence,  "  Sure  I 
should  know  that  voice ;  you  cannot  certainly,  sir,  be 
Mr.  Abraham  Adams  ?  '^  ■ —  "  Indeed,  damsel,"  says 
he,  "  that  is  my  name  ;  there  is  something  also  in 
your  voice  which  persuades  me  I  have  heard  it  be- 
fore."'^ —  "  La !  sir,^'  says  she,  "  don't  you  remember 
poor  Fanny  ?  "  —  "  How,  Fanny  ! ""  answered  Adams : 
"  indeed  I  vei-y  well  remember  you  ;  what  can  have 
brought  you  hither?"  —  "I  have  told  you,  sir,"" 
replied  she,  "  I  was  travelling  towards  London  ;  but 
I  thought  you  mentioned  Joseph  Andrews ;  pray 
what  is  become  of  him  ? "  —  "I  left  him,  child,  this 
afternoon,"  said  Adams,  "  in  the  stage-coach,  in  his 
way  towai'ds  our  parish,  whither  he  is  going  to  see 
you."  —  *'  To  see  me  !  La,  sir,"  answered  Fanny, 
"  sure  you  jeer  me ;  what  should  he  be  going  to  see 
me  for  ?  "  —  "  Can  you  ask  that  ?  "  replied  Adams. 
*'  I  hope,  Fanny,  you  are  not  inconstant ;  I  assure 
you  he  deserves  much  better  of  you."  —  "  La !  Mr. 
Adams,"  said  she,  "  what  is  Mr.  Joseph  to  me  ?  I 
am  sure  I  never  had  anything  to  say  to  him,  but  as 
one  fellow-servant  might  to  another."  —  "I  am  sorry 
to  hear  this,"  said  Adams  ;  "  a  virtuous  passion  for  a 
young  man  is  what  no  woman  need  be  ashamed  of. 
You  either  do  not  tell  me  truth,  or  you  are  false  to 
a  very  worthy  man."  Adams  then  told  her  what 
had  happened  at  the  inn,  to  which  she  listened  very 
attentively ;  and  a  sigh  often  escaped  from  her,  not- 
[208] 


FANNY'S  SUDDEN  DEPARTURE 

withstanding  her  utmost  endeavours  to  the  contrary ; 
nor  could  she  prevent  herself  from  asking  a  thousand 
questions,  which  would  have  assured  any  one  but 
Adams,  who  never  saw  farther  into  people  than  they 
desired  to  let  him,  of  the  truth  of  a  passion  she 
endeavoured  to  conceal.  Indeed,  the  fact  was,  that 
this  poor  girl,  having  heard  of  Joseph's  misfortune, 
by  some  of  the  servants  belonging  to  the  coach  which 
we  have  formerly  mentioned  to  have  stopt  at  the  inn 
while  the  poor  youth  was  confined  to  his  bed,  that 
instant  abandoned  the  cow  she  was  milking,  and, 
taking  with  her  a  little  bundle  of  clothes  under  her 
arm,  and  all  the  money  she  was  worth  in  her  own 
purse,  without  consulting  any  one,  immediately  set 
forward  in  pursuit  of  one  whom,  notwithstanding  her 
shyness  to  the  parson,  she  loved  with  inexpressible 
violence,  though  with  the  purest  and  most  delicate 
passion.  This  shyness,  therefore,  as  we  trust  it  will 
recommend  her  character  to  all  our  female  readers, 
and  not  greatly  surprize  such  of  our  males  as  are 
well  acquainted  with  the  younger  part  of  the  other 
sex,  we  shall  not  give  ourselves  any  trouble  to 
vindicate. 


[209] 


CHAPTER   ELEVEN 

WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  THEM  WHILE    BEFORE    THE  JUSTICE. 
A    CHAFTEE   VERY    FULL   OF   LEARNING. 

THEIR  fellow-travellers  were  so  engaged 
in  the  hot  dispute  concerning  the  di- 
vision of  the  reward  for  apprehending 
these  innocent  people,  that  they  attended 
very  little  to  their  discourse.  They  were  now  arrived 
at  the  justice's  house,  and  had  sent  oncof  hisserrants 
in  to  acquaint  his  worship  that  they  had  taken  two 
robbers  and  brought  them  before  him.  The  justice, 
who  was  just  returned  from  a  fox-chase,  and  had  not 
yet  finished  his  dinner,  ordered  them  to  cany  the 
prisoners  into  the  stable,  whither  they  were  attended 
by  all  the  servants  in  the  house,  and  all  the  people 
in  the  neighbourhood,  who  flocked  together  to  see 
them  with  as  much  curiosity  as  if  there  was  some- 
thing uncommon  to  be  seen,  or  that  a  rogue  did  not 
look  like  other  people. 

The  justice,  now  being  in  the  height  of  his  mirth 
and  his   cups,  bethought  himself  of  tlie  prisoners ; 
and,  telling  his  company  he  believed  they  should  have 
.  [  210  j 


THE    JUSTICE'S    EXAMINATION 

good  sport  in  their  examination,  he  ordered  them 
into  his  presence.  They  had  no  sooner  entered  the 
room  than  he  began  to  revile  them,  saying,  "  That 
robberies  on  the  highway  were  now  grown  so  fre- 
quent, that  people  could  not  sleep  safely  in  their 
beds,  and  assured  them  they  both  should  be  made 
examples  of  at  the  ensuing  assizes."  After  he  had 
gone  on  some  time  in  this  manner,  he  was  reminded 
by  his  clerk,  "  That  it  would  be  proper  to  take  the 
depositions  of  the  witnesses  against  them."  Which 
he  bid  him  do,  and  he  would  light  his  pipe  in  the 
meantime.  WTiilst  the  clerk  was  employed  in  writ- 
ing down  the  deposition  of  the  fellow  who  had  pre- 
tended to  be  robbed,  the  justice  employed  himself 
in  cracking  jests  on  poor  Fanny,  in  which  he  was 
seconded  by  all  the  company  at  table.  One  asked, 
"Whether  she  was  to  be  indicted  for  a  highway- 
man ?  "  Another  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  If  she  had 
not  provided  herself  a  great  belly,  he  was  at  her  ser- 
vice," A  third  said,  "  He  warranted  she  was  a  rela- 
tion of  Turpin."  To  which  one  of  the  company, 
a  great  wit,  shaking  his  head,  and  then  his  sides, 
answered,  "  He  believed  she  was  nearer  related  to 
Turpis  ; ""  at  which  there  was  an  universal  laugh. 
They  were  proceeding  thus  with  the  poor  girl,  when 
somebody,  smoaking  the  cassock  peeping  forth  from 
under  the  greatcoat  of  Adams,  cried  out,  "  What 
have  we  here,  a  parson  ? "  "  How,  sirrah,"  says  the 
[211] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

justice,  "do  you  go  robbing  in  the  dress  of  a  clergy- 
man? let  me  tell  you  your  habit  will  not  entitle 
you  to  the  benefit  of  the  clergy."  "  Yes,"  said  the 
witty  fellow,  "  he  will  have  one  benefit  of  clergy,  he 
will  be  exalted  above  the  heads  of  the  people;"  at 
which  there  was  a  second  laugh.  And  now  the  witty 
spark,  seeing  his  jokes  take,  began  to  rise  in  spirits ; 
and,  turning  to  Adams,  challenged  him  to  cap  verses, 
and,  provoking  him  by  giving  the  first  blow,  he 
repeated  — 

"  Jdolle  meum  levibus  cord  est  vilebile  telis." 

Upon  which  Adams,  with  a  look  full  of  ineffable 
contempt,  told  him,  "  He  deserved  scourging  for  his 
pronunciation."  The  witty  fellow  answered,  "  What 
do  you  deserve,  doctor,  for  not  being  able  to  answer 
the  first  time  ?  Why,  I  '11  give  one,  you  blockhead, 
with  an  S. 

"  •  Si  licet,  utftdvum  »pectatur  in  ignUms  haurumi 

"  What,  canst  not  with  an  M  neither  ?  Thou  art 
a  pretty  fellow  for  a  parson !  Why  didst  not  steal 
some  of  the  parson's  Latin  as  well  as  his  gown  ? " 
Another  at  the  table  then  answered, "  If  he  had,  you 
would  have  been  too  hard  for  him  ;  I  remember  you  at 
the  college  a  very  devil  at  this  sport ;  I  have  seen  you 
catch  a  freshman,  for  nobody  that  knew  you  would 
engage  with  you.""  "  I  have  forgot  those  things  now,'' 
cried  the  wit.     "  I  believe  I  could  have  done  pretty 


CAPPING    VERSES 

well  formerly.  Let 's  see,  what  did  I  end  with  ?  — 
an  M  again  —  aye 

" ' Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo,  virorum.* 
I  could  have  done  it  once."  "  Ah  !  evil  betide  you, 
and  so  you  can  now,"  said  the  other :  *'  nobody  in 
this  country  will  undertake  you."  Adams  could  hold 
no  longer :  "  Friend,"  said  he,  "  I  have  a  boy  not 
above  eight  years  old  who  would  instruct  thee  that 
the  last  verse  runs  thus  :  — 

"  *Ut  sunt  Divorum,  Mars,  Bacchus,  Apollo,  virorum.*^ 

"  I  '11  hold  thee  a  guinea  of  that,"  said  the  wit, 
throwing  the  money  on  the  table.  "  And  I  '11  go 
your  halves,"  cries  the  other.  "  Done,"  answered 
Adams ;  but  upon  applying  to  his  pocket  he  was 
forced  to  retract,  and  own  he  had  no  money  about 
him  ;  which  set  them  all  a-laughing,  and  confirmed  the 
triumph  of  his  adversary,  which  was  not  moderate, 
any  more  than  the  approbation  he  met  with  from  the 
whole  company,  who  told  Adams  he  must  go  a  little 
longer  to  school  before  he  attempted  to  attack  that 
gentleman  in  Latin. 

The  clerk,  having  finished  the  depositions,  as 
well  of  the  fellow  himself,  as  of  those  who  appre- 
hended the  prisoners,  delivered  them  to  the  jus- 
tice ;  who,  having  sworn  the  several  witnesses 
without  reading  a  syllable,  ordered  his  clerk  to 
make  the  mittimus. 

[213] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Adams  then  said,  "  He  hoped  he  should  not  be 
condemned  unheard."  "  No,  no,"  cries  the  justice, 
"  you  will  be  asked  what  you  have  to  say  for  j'our- 
self  when  you  come  on  your  trial :  we  are  not  trying 
you  now ;  I  shall  only  commit  you  to  gaol :  if  you 
can  prove  your  innocence  at  'size,  you  will  be  found 
ignoramus,  and  so  no  harm  done.""  "  Is  it  no 
pimishment,  sir,  for  an  innocent  man  to  lie  several 
months  in  gaol  ? "  cries  Adams :  "  I  beg  you  would 
at  least  hear  me  before  you  sign  the  mittimus." 
"  What  signifies  all  you  can  say  ? ''  says  the  justice : 
"  is  it  not  here  in  black  and  white  against  you  ?  I 
must  tell  you  you  are  a  very  impertinent  fellow  to 
take  up  so  much  of  my  time.  So  make  haste  ^^th 
his  mittimus." 

The  clerk  now  acquainted  the  justice  that  among 
other  suspicious  things,  as  a  penknife,  &c.,  found  in 
Adams's  pocket,  they  had  discovered  a  book  written, 
as  he  apprehended,  in  cyphers;  for  no  one  could 
read  a  word  in  it.  "Aye,"  says  the  justice,  "the 
fellow  may  be  more  than  a  common  robber,  he  may 
be  in  a  plot  against  the  Government.  Produce  the 
book."  Upon  which  the  poor  manuscript  of  ^schylus, 
which  Adams  had  transcribed  with  his  own  hand, 
■was  brought  forth ;  and  the  justice,  looking  at  it, 
shook  his  head,  and,  turning  to  the  prisoner,  asked 
the  meaning  of  those  cyphers.  "  Cyphers? "  answered 
Adams,  "  it  is  a  manuscript  of  iEschylus."  "  Who  ? 
[214] 


THE    MANUSCRIPT    OF    .ESCHYLUS 

who  ?''  said  the  justice.  Adams  repeated,  "  ^Eschylus." 
**  That  is  an  outlandish  name,"  cried  the  clerk.  "  A 
fictitious  name  rather,  I  believe,"  said  the  justice. 
One  of  the  company  declared  it  looked  very  much 
like  Greek.  "  Greek .?"  said  the  justice  ;  "  why,  *t  is 
all  writing."  "  No,"  says  the  other,  "  I  don't  posi- 
tively say  it  is  so ;  for  it  is  a  very  long  time  since 
I  have  seen  any  Greek."  "There's  one,"  says  he, 
turning  to  the  parson  of  the  parish,  who  was  present, 
"Mill  tell  us  immediately."  The  parson,  taking  up 
the  book,  and  putting  on  his  spectacles  and  gravity 
together,  muttered  some  words  to  himself,  and  then 
pronounced  aloud  — "  Aye,  indeed,  it  is  a  Greek 
manuscript;  a  very  fine  piece  of  antiquity.  I  make 
no  doubt  but  it  was  stolen  from  the  same  clergyman 
from  whom  the  rogue  took  the  cassock."  "What 
did  the  rascal  mean  by  his  ^Eschylus?"  says  the 
justice.  "  Pooh  ! "  answered  the  doctor,  with  a  con- 
temptuous griu,  "do  you  think  that  fellow  knows 
anything  of  this  book  ?  ^Eschylus !  ho  !  ho !  I  see 
now  what  it  is  —  a  manuscript  of  one  of  the  fathers. 
I  know  a  nobleman  who  would  give  a  great  deal  of 
money  for  such  a  piece  of  antiquity.  Aye,  aje,  ques- 
tion and  answer.  The  beginning  is  the  catechism  in 
Greek.     Aye,  aye,  Pollaki  tot :  What's  your  name  ? " 

"  Aye,  what  "s  your  name  ?  "  says  the  justice  to 

Adams  ;  who  answered,  "  It  is  /Eschylus,  and  I  vill 

maintaio    it."  —  "  Oh !    it    is,"    .says   the    justice : 

[«15j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

"  make  Mr.  ^Eschylus  his   mittimus.     I  will  teach 
you  to  banter  me  with  a  false  name.*^ 

One  of  the  company,  having  looked  steadfastly  at 
Adams,  asked  him,  "If  he  did  not  know  Lady 
Booby  ? "  Upon  which  Adams,  presently  calling 
him  to  mind,  answered  in  a  rapture,  "  O  squire  !  are 
you  there  ?  I  believe  you  will  inform  his  worship  I 
am  innocent.*" —  "  I  can  indeed  say,"  replied  the  squire, 
"that  I  am  very  much  surprized  to  see  you  in  this 
situation:"  and  then,  addressing  himself  to  the 
justice,  he  said,  "  Sir,  I  assure  you  Mr.  Adams  is  a 
clergyman,  as  he  appears,  and  a  gentleman  of  a  very 
good  character.  I  wish  you  would  enquire  a  little 
farther  into  this  affair ;  for  I  am  convinced  of  his 
innocence."  —  "  Nay,"  says  the  justice,  "  if  he  is  a 
gentleman,  and  you  are  sure  he  is  innocent,  I  don't 
desire  to  commit  him,  not  I:  I  will  commit  the 
woman  by  herself,  and  take  your  bail  for  the  gentle- 
man :  look  into  the  book,  clerk,  and  see  how  it  is  to 
take  bail  —  come  —  and  make  the  mittimus  for  the 
woman  as  fast  as  you  can.'"  —  "  Sir,"  cries  Adams, 
*'  I  assure  you  she  is  as  innocent  as  myself.''  — 
"Perhaps,"  said  the  squire,  "there  may  be  some 
mistake  !  pray  let  us  hear  Mr.  Adams's  relation."  — 
"With  all  my  heart,"  answered  the  justice;  "and 
give  the  gentleman  a  glass  to  wet  his  whistle  before 
he  begins.  I  know  how  to  behave  myself  to  gen- 
tlemen as  well  as  another.  Nobody  can  say  I  have 
[«16J 


THE    DISMISSAL 

committed  a  gentleman  since  I  have  been  in  the  com- 
mission."" Adams  then  began  the  narrative,  in  which, 
though  he  was  very  proHx,  he  was  uninterrupted 
unless  by  several  hums  and  hahs  of  the  justice,  and 
his  desire  to  repeat  those  parts  which  seemed  to  him 
most  material.  When  he  had  finished,  the  justice, 
who,  on  what  the  squire  had  said,  believed  every 
syllable  of  his  story  on  his  bare  affirmation,  notwith- 
standing the  depositions  on  oath  to  the  contrary, 
began  to  let  loose  several  rogues  and  rascals  against 
the  witness,  whom  he  ordered  to  stand  forth,  but  in 
vain;  the  said  witness,  long  since  finding  what  turn 
matters  were  likely  to  take,  had  privily  withdrawn 
without  attending  the  issue.  The  justice  now  flew 
into  a  violent  passion,  and  was  hardly  prevailed  with 
not  to  commit  the  innocent  fellows  who  had  been  im- 
posed on  as  well  as  himself.  He  swore,  "  They  had 
best  find  out  the  fellow  who  was  guilty  of  perjury, 
and  bring  him  before  him  within  two  days,  or  he 
would  bind  them  all  over  to  their  good  behavioui.'^ 
They  all  promised  to  use  their  best  endeavours  to 
that  purpose,  and  were  dismissed.  Then  the  justice 
insisted  that  Mr.  Adams  should  sit  down  and  take 
a  glass  with  him  ;  and  the  parson  of  the  parish 
delivered  him  back  the  manuscript  without  saying  a 
word ;  nor  would  Adams,  who  plainly  discerned  his 
ignorance,  expose  it.  As  for  Fanny,  she  was,  at  her 
own  request,  recommended  to  the  care  of  a  maid- 
[217  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

servant  of  the  house,  who  helped  her  to  new  dre»s 
and  clean  herself. 

The  company  in  the  parlour  had  not  been  long 
seated  before  they  were  alarmed  with  a  honible 
uproar  from  without,  where  the  persons  who  had 
apprehended  Adams  and  Fanny  had  been  legaling, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  house,  ^ith  the 
justice's  strong  beer.  These  were  all  fallen  together 
by  the  ears,  and  were  cuffing  each  other  without  any 
mercy.  The  justice  himself  sallied  out,  and  with  the 
dignity  of  his  presence  soon  put  an  end  to  the  fray. 
On  his  return  into  the  parlour,  he  reported,  "  That 
the  occasion  >  f  the  quarrel  was  no  other  tlian  a  dis- 
pute to  whom,  if  Adams  had  been  convicted,  the 
greater  share  of  the  reward  for  apprehending  him 
had  belonged."  All  the  company  laughed  at  this, 
except  Adams,  who,  taking  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  fetched  a  deep  groan,  and  said,  "  He  was 
concerned  to  see  so  litigious  a  temper  in  men.  That 
he  remembered  a  story  something  like  it  in  one  of 
the  parishes  where  his  cure  lay :  —  There  was,^  con- 
tinued he,  "  a  competition  between  three  young  fel- 
lows for  the  place  of  the  clerk,  which  I  disposed  of, 
to  the  best  of  my  abilities,  according  to  merit ;  that 
is,  I  gave  it  to  him  who  had  the  happiest  knack  at 
setting  a  psalm.  The  clerk  was  no  sooner  established 
in  his  place  than  a  contention  began  between  the  two 
disappointed  candidates  concerning  their  excellence ; 
[218  J 


A    DISPUTE 

each  contending  on  whom,  had  they  two  been  the 
only  competitors,  my  election  would  have  fallen. 
This  dispute  frequently  disturbed  the  congregation, 
and  introduced  a  discord  into  the  psalmody,  till  I  was 
forced  to  silence  them  both.  But,  alas  !  the  litigious 
spirit  could  not  be  stifled  ;  and,  being  no  longer  able 
to  vent  itself  in  singing,  it  now  broke  forth  in  fight- 
ing. It  produced  many  battles  (for  they  were  very 
near  a  match),  and  I  believe  would  have  ended  fatally, 
had  not  the  death  of  the  clerii  given  me  an  oppor- 
tunity to  promote  one  of  them  to  his  place ;  which 
presently  put  an  end  to  the  dispute,  and  entirely 
reconciled  the  contending  parties."  Adams  then  pro- 
ceeded to  make  some  philosophical  observations  on  the 
folly  (if  growing  warm  in  disputes  in  which  neither 
party  is  interested.  He  then  applied  himself  vigor- 
ously to  smoaking  •,  and  a  long  silence  ensued,  which 
was  at  length  broke  by  the  justice,  who  began  to 
sing  forth  his  own  praises,  and  to  value  himself 
exceedingly  on  his  nice  discernment  in  the  cause 
which  had  lately  been  before  him.  He  was  quickly 
interrupted  by  Mr.  Adams,  between  whom  and  his 
worship  a  dispute  now^  arose,  whether  he  ought  not, 
in  strictness  of  law,  to  have  committed  him,  the  said 
Adams  ;  in  which  the  latter  maintained  he  ought  to 
have  been  committed,  and  the  justice  as  vehemently 
held  he  ought  not.  This  had  most  probably  pro- 
duced a  quarrel  (for  both  were  very  violent  and 
[219] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

positive  in  their  opinions),  had  not  Fanny  accident- 
ally heard  that  a  young  fellow  was  going  from  the 
justice's  house  to  the  very  inn  where  the  stage-coach 
in  which  Joseph  was,  put  up.  Upon  this  news,  she 
immediately  sent  for  the  parson  out  of  the  parlour. 
Adams,  when  he  found  her  resolute  to  go  (though 
she  would  not  own  the  reason,  but  pretended  she 
could  not  bear  to  see  the  faces  of  those  who  had 
suspected  her  of  such  a  crime),  was  as  fully  deter- 
mined to  go  with  her ;  he  accordingly  took  leave  of 
the  justice  and  company  :  and  so  ended  a  dispute  in 
which  the  law  seemed  shamefully  to  intend  to  set  a 
magistrate  and  a  divine  together  by  the  ears. 


[220] 


CHAPTER  TWELVE 

A  VERY  DELIGHTFUL  ADVENTURE,  AS  WELL  TO  THH 
PERSONS  CONCERNED  AS  TO  THE  GOOD-NATURED 
READER. 

jA  DAMS,  Fanny,  and  the  guide,  set  out  to- 
/^L       gether  about  one  in  the  moniing,   the 

/  ^  moon  being  then  just  risen.  They  had 
^^  ^^  not  gone  above  a  mile  before  a  most 
violent  storm  of  rain  obliged  them  to  take  shelter  in 
an  inn,  or  rather  alehouse,  where  Adams  immediately 
procured  himself  a  good  fire,  a  toast  and  ale,  and  a 
pipe,  and  began  to  smoak  with  great  content,  utterly 
forgetting  everything  that  had  happened. 

Fanny  sat  likewise  down  by  the  fire ;  but  was  much 
more  impatient  at  the  storm.  She  presently  engaged 
the  eyes  of  the  host,  his  wife,  the  maid  of  the  house, 
and  the  young  fellow  who  was  their  guide ;  they  all 
conceived  they  had  never  seen  anything  half  so  hand- 
some ;  and  indeed,  reader,  if  thou  art  of  an  amorous 
hue,  I  advise  thee  to  skip  over  the  next  paragraph ; 
which,  to  render  our  history  perfect,  we  are  obliged 
to  set  down,  humbly  hoping  that  we  may  escape  the 
£aite  of  Pygmalion ;  for  if  it  should  happen  to  us,  or 
[221] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

to  thee,  to  be  struck  with  this  picture,  we  should  be 
perhaps  in  as  helpless  a  condition  as  Narcissus,  and 
might  say  to  ourselves,  Quod  petis  ed  nusquam.     Or, 

if  the  finest  features  in  it  should  set  Lady 's 

image  before  our  eyes,  we  should  be  still  in  as  bad  a 
situation,  and  might  say  to  our  desires,  Coelum  iptitm 
petimiis  stultit'm. 

Fanny  was  now  in  the  nineteenth  year  of  her  age; 
she  was  tall  and  delicately  shaped ;  but  not  one  of 
those  slender  young  women  who  seem  rather  intended 
to  hang  up  in  the  hall  of  an  anatomist  than  for  any 
other  purpose.  On  the  contrary,  she  "was  so  plump 
that  she  seemed  Ijui-sting  through  her  tight  stays, 
especially  in  the  part  which  confined  her  swelling 
breasts.  Nor  did  her  hips  want  the  assistance  of  a 
hoop  to  extend  them.  The  exact  shape  of  her  arms 
denoted  the  form  of  those  limbs  which  she  concealed  ; 
and  though  they  were  a  little  reddened  by  her  labour, 
yet,  if  her  sleeve  slipped  above  her  elbow,  or  her 
handkerchief  discovered  any  part  of  lier  neck,  a  white- 
ness appeared  which  the  finest  Italian  paint  would  be 
unable  to  reach.  Her  hair  was  of  a  chesnut  brown, 
and  nature  had  been  extremely  lavish  to  her  of  it, 
which  she  had  cut,  and  on  Sundays  used  to  curl  down 
her  neck,  in  the  modern  fashion.  Her  forehead  was 
high,  her  eyebrows  arched,  and  rather  full  than  other- 
wise. Her  eyes  black  and  sparkling ;  her  nose  just 
inclining  to  the  Roman ;  her  lips  red  and  moist,  and 
[822] 


THE    SONG 

her  under-lip,  according  to  the  opinion  of  the  ladles, 
too  pouting.  Her  teeth  were  white,  but  not  exactly 
even.  The  small-pox  had  left  one  only  mark  on  her 
chin,  which  was  so  large,  it  might  have  been  mistaken 
for  a  dimple,  had  not  her  left  cheek  produced  one  so 
near  a  neighbour  to  it,  that  the  former  served  only 
for  a  foil  to  the  latter.  Her  complexion  was  fair,  a 
little  injured  by  the  sun,  but  overspread  vfith  such 
a  bloom  that  the  finest  ladies  would  have  exchanged 
all  their  white  for  it:  add  to  these  a  countenance  in 
which,  though  she  was  extremely  bashful,  a  sensibility 
appeared  almost  incredible;  and  a  sweetness,  when- 
ever she  smiled  beyond  either  imitation  or  descrip- 
tion. To  conclude  all,  she  had  a  natural  gentility, 
superior  to  the  acquisition  of  art,  and  which  surprized 
all  who  beheld  her. 

This  lovely  creature  was  sitting  by  the  fire  with 
Adams,  when  her  attention  was  suddenly  engaged  by 
a  voice  from  an  inner  room,  which  sung  the  following 

8ong :  — 

THE  SONG. 

Say,  Chloe,  where  must  the  swain  stray 

Who  is  by  thy  beauties  undone  ? 
To  wash  their  remembrance  away. 

To  what  distant  Lethe  must  run  ? 
The  wretch  who  is  sentenced  to  die 

May  escape,  and  leave  justice  behind  ; 
From  his  country  perhaps  he  may  fly. 

But  oh  !  can  he  fly  from  his  mind  ? 

O  rapture  !  unthought  of  betbre, 
To  be  thus  of  Chloe  possess'd ; 
[223] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

Nor  she,  nor  no  tyrant's  hard  power. 
Her  image  can  tear  from  my  breast 

But  felt  not  Narcissus  more  joy. 
With  his  eyes  he  beheld  his  loved  charms? 

Yet  what  he  beheld  the  fond  boy 
More  eagerly  wish'd  in  his  arms. 

How  can  it  thy  dear  image  be 

Which  fills  thus  my  bosom  wth  woe  ? 
Can  aught  bear  resemblance  to  thee 

Which  grief  and  not  joy  can  bestow  ? 
This  coimterfeit  snatch  from  my  heart, 

Ye  pow'rs,  tho'  with  torment  I  rave, 
Tho'  mortal  will  prove  the  fell  smart : 

I  then  shall  find  rest  in  my  grave. 

Ah,  see  the  dear  nymph  o'er  the  plain 

Come  smiling  and  tripping  along ! 
A  thousand  Loves  dance  in  her  train. 

The  Graces  around  her  all  throng. 
To  meet  her  soft  Zephyrus  flies. 

And  wafts  all  the  sweets  from  the  flowers, 
Ah,  rogue  !  whilst  he  kisses  her  eyes, 

More  sweets  from  her  breath  he  devour& 

My  soul,  whilst  I  gaze,  is  on  fire  : 

But  her  looks  were  so  tender  and  kind, 
My  hop<  almost  reach'd  my  desire, 

And  left  lame  despair  far  behind- 
Transported  with  madness,  I  flew. 

And  eagerly  seized  on  ray  bliss ; 
Her  bosom  but  half  she  withdrew. 

But  half  she  refused  my  fond  kiss. 

Advances  like  theso  made  me  bold ; 

I  whisper 'd  her  —  Love,  we  're  alona  — 
The  rest  let  immortal    unfold  ; 

No  language  can  tc"  but  their  own. 
Ah,  Chloe,  expiring,  I  cried. 

How  long  X  thy  crueltj'  bore ! 
Ah,  Strephon,  she  blushing  replied. 

You  ne'er  was  so  pressing  before. 

[224] 


A    JOYFUL    MEETING 

Adams  had  been  ruminating  all  this  time  on  a 
passage  in  JEschylus,  without  attending  in  the  least 
to  the  voice,  though  one  of  the  most  melodious  that 
ever  was  heard,  when,  casting  his  eyes  on  Fanny,  he 
cried  out,  "  Bless  us,  you  look  extremely  pale  !  "  — 
"  Pale  !  Mr.  Adams,"  says  she  ;  "  O  Jesus  !  "  and  fell 
backwards  in  her  chair.  Adams  jumped  up,  flung 
his  ^schylus  into  the  fire,  and  fell  a-roaring  to  the 
people  of  the  house  for  help.  He  soon  summoned 
every  one  into  the  room,  and  the  songster  among  the 
rest ;  but,  O  reader !  when  this  nightingale,  who  was 
no  other  than  Joseph  Andrews  himself,  saw  his  be- 
loved Fanny  in  the  situation  we  have  described  her, 
canst  thou  conceive  the  agitations  of  his  mind  ?  If 
thou  canst  not,  waive  that  meditation  to  behold  his 
happiness,  when,  clasping  her  in  his  arms,  he  found 
life  and  blood  returning  into  her  cheeks  :  when  he  saw 
her  open  her  beloved  eyes,  and  heard  her  with  the 
softest  accent  whisper,  "  Are  you  Joseph  Andi-ews  ?  " 
—  "  Art  thou  my  Fanny  ?  "  he  answered  eagerly  : 
and,  pulling  her  to  his  heart,  he  imprinted  number- 
less kisses  on  her  lips,  without  considering  who  were 
present. 

If  prudes  are  offended  at  the  lusciousuess  of  this 
picture,  they  may  take  their  eyes  off  from  it,  and 
survey  parson  Adams  dancing  about  the  room  in  a 
rapture  of  joy.  Some  philosophers  may  perhaps 
doul)t  whether  he  was  not  the  happiest  of  the  three : 
[225] 

Vol.  1  9 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

for  the  goodness  of  his  heart  enjoyed  the  blessings 
which  were  exulting  in  the  breasts  of  both  the  other 
two,  together  with  his  own.  But  we  shall  leave  such 
disquisitions,  as  too  deep  for  us,  to  those  who  are 
building  some  favourite  hypothesis,  which  they  will 
refuse  no  metaphysical  rubbish  to  erect  and  support : 
for  our  part,  we  give  it  clearly  on  the  side  of  Joseph, 
whose  happiness  was  not  only  greater  than  the  par- 
son's, but  of  longer  duration  :  for  as  soon  as  the  first 
tumults  of  Adams"'s  rapture  were  over  he  cast  his 
eyes  towards  the  fire,  where  ^schylus  lay  expiring ; 
and  immediately  rescued  the  poor  remains,  to  wit, 
the  sheepskin  covering,  of  his  dear  friend,  which  was 
the  work  of  his  own  hands,  and  had  been  his  insepa- 
rable companion  for  upwards  of  thirty  yeai's. 

Fanny  had  no  sooner  perfectly  recovered  herself 
than  she  began  to  restrain  the  impetuosity  of  her 
transports  ;  and,  reflecting  on  A\hat  she  had  done  and 
suffered  in  the  presence  of  so  many,  she  was  imme- 
diately covered  with  confusion  ;  and,  pushing  Joseph 
gently  from  her,  she  begged  him  to  be  quiet,  nor 
would  admit  of  either  kiss  or  embrace  any  longer. 
Then,  seeing  Mrs.  Slipslop,  she  curtsied,  and  offered 
to  advance  to  her ;  but  that  high  woman  would  not 
return  her  curtsies  ;  but,  casting  her  eyes  another  way, 
immediately  withdrew  into  another  room,  muttering, 
as  she  went,  she  wondered  who  the  creature  was. 

[226] 


y 


CHAPTER    THIRTEEN 

A  DISSERTATION  CONCERNING  HIGH  PEOPLE  AND  LOW 
PEOPLE,  WITH  MRS.  SLIPSLOP's  DEPARTURE  IN  KO 
VERY  GOOD  TEMPER  OF  MIND,  AND  THE  EVIL 
PLIGHT  IN  WHICH  SHE  LEFT  ADAMS  AND  HIS 
COMPANY. 

IT  will  doubtless  seem  extremely  odd  to  many 
readers,  that  Mrs.  Slipslop,  who  had  lived 
several  years  in  the  same  house  with  Fanny, 
should,  in  a  short  separation,  utterly  forget 
her.  And  indeed  the  truth  is,  that  she  remembered 
her  very  well.  As  we  would  not  willingly,  therefore, 
that  anything  should  appear  unnatural  in  this  oiu- 
history,  we  will  endeavour  to  explain  the  reasons  of 
her  conduct ;  nor  do  we  doubt  being  able  to  satisfy 
the  most  curious  reader  that  Mrs.  Slipslop  did  not  in 
the  least  deviate  from  the  cojinmon  road  in  this  be- 
haviour; and,  indeed,  had  she  done  otherwise,  she 
must  have  descended  below  herself,  and  would  have 
very  justly  been  liable  to  censure. 

Be  it  known  then, that  the  human  speciesare  divided 
into  two  sorts  of  people,  to  wit,  high  people  and  low 
people.     As  by  high  people  I  would  not  be  under- 
[227j 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

stood  to  mean  persons  literally  born  higher  in  their 
dimensions  than  the  rest  of  the  species,  nor  meta- 
phorically those  of  exalted  characters  or  abilities ; 
so  by  low  people  I  cannot  be  construed  to  intend  the 
reverse.  High  people  signify  no  other  than  people 
of  fashion,  and  low  people  those  of  no  fashion.  Now, 
this  word  fashion  hath  by  long  use  lost  its  original 
meaning,  from  which  at  present  it  gives  Us  a  very 
different  idea  ;  for  I  am  deceived  if  by  persons  of 
fashion  we  do  not  generally  include  a  conception  of 
birth  and  accomplishments  superior  to  the  herd 
of  manlcind ;  whereas,  in  reality,  nothing  more  was 
originally  meant  by  a  person  of  fashion  than  a  person 
who  drest  himself  in  the  fashion  of  the  times ;  and 
the  word  really  and  truly  signifies  no  more  at  this 
day.  Now,  the  world  being  thus  divided  into  people 
of  fashion  and  people  of  no  fashion,  a  fierce  conten- 
tion arose  between  them ;  nor  would  those  of  one 
party,  to  avoid  suspicion,  be  seen  publickly  to  speak 
to  those  of  the  other,  though  they  often  held  a  very 
good  correspondence  in  private.  In  this  contention 
it  is  difficult  to  say  which  party  succeeded  ;  for,  whilst 
the  people  of  fashion  seized  several  places  to  their 
own  use,  such  as  courts,  assemblies,  operas,  balls, 
&c.,  the  people  of  no  fashion,  besides  one  royal  place, 
called  his  Majesty''s  Bear-garden,  have  been  in  con- 
stant possession  of  all  hops,  fairs,  revels,  &c.  Two 
places  have  been  agreed  to  be  divided  between  them, 
[228] 


HIGH  AND  LOW  PEOPLE 

namely,  the  church  and  the  playhouse,  where  they 
segregate  themselves  from  each  other  in  a  remarkable 
manner;  for,  as  the  people  of  fashion  exalt  them- 
selves at  church  over  the  heads  of  the  people  of  no 
fashion,  so  in  the  playhouse  they  abase  themselves  in 
the  same  degree  under  their  feet.  This  distinction 
I  have  never  met  with  any  one  able  to  account  for  : 
it  is  sufficient  that,  so  far  from  looking  on  each  other 
as  brethren  in  the  Christian  language,  they  seem 
scarce  to  regard  each  other  as  of  the  same  species. 
This,  the  terms  "  strange  persons,  people  one  does 
not  know,  the  creature,  wretches,  beasts,  brutes," 
and  many  other  appellations  evidently  demonstrate ; 
which  Mrs.  Slipslop,  having  often  heard  her  mistress 
use,  thought  she  had  also  a  right  to  use  in  her  turn ; 
and  perhaps  she  was  not  mistaken ;  for  these  two 
parties,  especially  those  bordering  nearly  on  each 
other,  to  wit,  the  lowest  of  the  high,  and  the  highest 
of  the  low,  often  change  their  parties  according  to 
place  and  time  ;  for  those  who  are  people  of  fashion 
in  one  place  are  often  people  of  no  fashion  in  another. 
And  with  regard  to  time,  it  may  not  be  unpleasant 
to  survey  the  picture  of  dependance  like  a  kind  of 
ladder  ;  as,  for  instance  ;  early  in  the  morning  aiises 
the  postillion,  or  some  other  boy,  which  great 
families,  no  more  than  great  ships,  are  without,  and 
falls  to  brushing  the  clothes  and  cleaning  the  shoes 
of  John  the  footman ;  who,  being  drest  himself, 
[229  J 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

applies  his  hands  to  the  same  labours  for  Mr.  Second- 
hand, the  squire's  gentleman  ;  the  gentleman  in  the 
like  manner,  a  little  later  in  the  day,  attends  the 
squire ;  the  squire  is  no  sooner  equipped  than  he 
attends  the  levee  of  my  lord  ;  which  is  no  sooner  over 
than  my  lord  himself  is  seen  at  the  levee  of  the 
favourite,  who,  after  the  hour  of  homage  is  at  an 
end,  appears  himself  to  pay  homage  to  the  levee  of 
his  sovereign.  Nor  is  there,  perhaps,  in  this  whole 
ladder  of  dependance,  any  one  step  at  a  greater 
distance  from  the  other  than  the  first  from  the 
second ;  so  that  to  a  philosopher  the  question  might 
only  seem,  whether  you  would  chuse  to  be  a  great 
man  at  six  in  the  morning,  or  at  two  in  the  after- 
noon. And  yet  there  are  scarce  two  of  these  who 
do  not  think  the  least  familiarity  with  the  persons 
below  them  a  condescension,  and,  if  they  were  to  go 
one  step  farther,  a  degradation. 

And  now,  reader,  I  hope  thou  wilt  pardon  this 
long  digression,  which  seemed  to  me  necessary  to 
vindicate  the  great  character  of  Mrs.  Slipslop  from 
what  low  people,  who  have  never  seen  high  people, 
might  think  an  absurdity ;  but  we  who  know  them 
must  have  daily  found  very  high  persons  know  us  in 
one  place  and  not  in  another,  to-day  and  not  to- 
morrow ;  all  which  it  is  difficult  to  account  for  other- 
wise than  I  have  here  endeavoured ;  and  perhaps,  if 
the  gods,  according  to  the  opinion  of  some,  made 
[230] 


MRS.    SLIPSLOP'S    STORY 

men  only  to  laugh  at  them,  there  is  no  part  of  our 
behaviour  which  answers  the  end  of  our  creation 
better  than  this. 

But  to  return  to  our  history  :  Adams,  who  knew  no 
more  of  this  than  the  cat  which  sat  on  the  table,  imag- 
ining Mrs.  Slipslop's  memory  had  been  much  worse 
than  it  really  was,  followed  her  into  the  next  room, 
crying  out,  "  Madam  Slipslop,  here  is  one  of  your 
old  acquaintance  ;  do  but  see  what  a  fine  woman  she 
is  grown  since  she  left  Lady  Booby's  service.""  —  "I 
think  I  reflect  something  of  her,""  answered  she,  with 
great  dignity,  "  but  I  can't  remember  all  the  inferior 
servants  in  our  family.""  She  then  proceeded  to 
satisfy  Adams's  curiosity,  by  telling  him,  "When  she 
arrived  at  the  inn,  she  found  a  chaise  ready  for  her ; 
that,  her  lady  being  expected  very  shortly  in  the 
country,  she  was  obliged  to  make  the  utmost  haste ; 
and,  in  commensuration  of  Joseph's  lameness,  she 
had  taken  him  with  her;"  and  lastly,  "that  the 
excessive  virulence  of  the  storm  had  driven  them  into 
the  house  where  he  found  them."  After  which,  she 
acquainted  Adams  with  his  having  left  his  horse,  and 
exprest  some  wonder  at  his  having  strayed  so  far 
out  of  his  way,  and  at  meeting  him,  as  she  said,  "in 
the  company  of  that  wench,  who  she  feared  was  no 
better  than  she  should  be." 

The  horse  was  no  sooner  put  into  Adams's  head  but 
he  was  immediately  driven  out  by  this  reflection  on 
[231  ] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

the  character  of  Fanny.  He  protested,  "  He  be- 
lieved there  was  not  a  chaster  damsel  in  the  universe. 
I  heartily  wish,  I  heartily  wish,""  cried  he  (snapping 
his  fingers),  "that  all  her  betters  were  as  good." 
He  then  proceeded  to  inform  her  of  the  accident  of 
their  meeting;  but  when  he  came  to  mention  the 
circumstance  of  delivering  her  from  the  rape,  she 
said,  "  She  thought  him  properer  for  the  army  than 
the  clergy ;  that  it  did  not  become  a  clergyman 
to  lay  violent  hands  on  any  one;  that  he  should 
have  rather  prayed  that  she  might  be  strength- 
ened." Adams  said,  "  He  was  very  far  from  being 
ashamed  of  what  he  had  done : "  she  replied,  "  Want 
of  shame  was  not  the  currycuristic  of  a  clergyman." 
This  dialogue  might  have  probably  grown  warmer, 
had  not  Joseph  opportunely  entered  the  room,  to 
ask  leave  of  Madam  Slipslop  to  introduce  Fanny  : 
but  she  positively  refused  to  admit  any  such  trol- 
lops, and  told  him,  "She  would  have  been  burnt 
before  she  would  have  suffered  him  to  get  into  a 
chaise  with  her,  if  she  had  once  respected  him  of 
having  his  sluts  w  aylaid  on  the  road  for  him  ; "  add- 
ing, "  that  Mr.  Adams  acted  a  very  pretty  part,  and 
she  did  not  doubt  but  to  see  him  a  bishop."  He 
made  the  best  bow  he  could,  and  cried  out,  "  I  thank 
you,  madam,  for  that  right-reverend  appellation, 
which  I  shall  take  all  honest  means  to  deserve."  — 
"  Very  honest  means,"  returned  she,  with  a  sneer, 
[  232  } 


MRS.    SLIPSLOP    ENRAGED 

**  to  bring  people  together.""  At  these  words  Adcams 
took  two  or  three  strides  across  the  room,  when  the 
coachman  came  to  inform  Mrs.  Shpslop,  "That  the 
storm  was  ovei',  and  the  moon  shone  very  bright." 
She  then  sent  for  Joseph,  who  was  sitting  without 
with  his  Fanny,  and  would  have  had  him  gone  with 
her;  but  he  peremptorily  refused  to  leave  Fanny 
behind,  which  threw  the  good  woman  into  a  violent 
rage.  She  said,  "  She  would  inform  her  lady  what 
doings  were  carrying  on,  and  did  not  doubt  but  she 
would  rid  the  parisli  of  all  such  people  ; ""  and  con- 
cluded a  long  speech,  full  of  bitterness  and  very  hard 
words,  with  some  reflections  on  the  clergy  not  decent 
to  repeat;  at  la,t,  finding  Joseph  immoveable,  she  flung 
herself  into  the  chaise,  casting  a  look  at  Fanny  as  she 
went,  not  unlike  that  which  Cleopatra  gives  Octavia 
in  the  play.  To  say  the  truth,  she  was  most  disagree- 
ably disappointed  by  the  presence  of  Fauny :  she 
had,  from  her  first  seeing  Joseph  at  the  inn,  con- 
ceived hopes  of  something  which  might  have  been 
accomplished  at  an  alehouse  as  well  as  a  palace. 
Indeed,  it  is  probable  Mr.  Adams  had  rescued 
more  than  Fanny  from  the  danger  of  a  rape  that 
evening. 

When  the  chaise  had  carried  off  the  enraged  Slip- 
slop, Adams,  Joseph,  and  Fanny  assembled  over  the 
fire,  where  they  had  a  great  deal  of  innocent  chat, 
pretty    enough ;    but,  as  possibly   it  would   not  be 
[233] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 

very  entertaining  to  the  reader,  we  shall  hasten  to 
the  morning ;  only  observing  that  none  of  them  went 
to  bed  that  night.  Adams,  when  he  had  smoaked 
three  pipes,  took  a  comfortable  nap  in  a  great  chair, 
and  left  the  lovers,  whose  eyes  were  too  well  em- 
ployed to  permit  any  desire  of  shutting  them,  to 
enjoy  by  themselves,  during  some  hours,  an  happiness 
which  none  of  my  readers  who  have  never  been  in 
love  are  capable  of  the  least  conception  of,  though 
we  had  as  many  tongues  as  Homer  desired,  to  describe 
it  with,  and  which  all  true  lovers  will  rcprevsent 
to  their  own  minds  without  the  least  assistance 
fi'om  us. 

Let  it  suffice  then  to  say,  that  Fanny,  after  a 
thousand  entreaties,  at  last  gave  up  her  whole  soul 
to  Joseph ;  and,  almost  fainting  in  his  arms,  with 
a  sigh  infinitely  softer  and  sweeter  too  than  any 
Arabian  breeze,  she  whispered  to  his  lips,  which  were 
then  close  to  hers,  "  O  Joseph,  you  have  won  me  : 
I  will  be  yours  for  ever."  Joseph,  having  thanked 
her  on  his  knees,  and  embraced  her  with  an  eagerness 
which  she  now  almost  returned,  leapt  up  in  a  rapture, 
and  awakened  the  parson,  earnestly  begging  him 
"that  he  would  that  instant  join  their  hands  to- 
gether." Adams  rebuked  him  for  his  request,  and 
told  him  "  He  would  by  no  means  consent  to  anything 
contrary  to  the  forms  of  the  Church ;  that  he  had  no 
licence,  nor  indeed  would  he  advise  him  to  obtain  one ; 
[234  j 


AN    EVIL    PLIGHT 

that  the  Church  had  prescribed  a  form  —  namely,  the 
publication  of  baiuis  —  with  wliich  all  good  Christians 
ought  to  comply,  and  to  the  omission  of  which  he 
attributed  the  many  miseries  which  befell  great  folks 
in  marriage ; ""  concluding,  "  As  many  as  arc  joined 
together  otherwise  than  G — 's  word  doth  allow  are 
not  joined  together  by  G — ,  neither  is  their  matri- 
mony lawful."  Fanny  agreed  with  the  parson,  saying 
to  Joseph,  with  a  blush,  "  She  assured  him  she  would 
not  consent  to  any  such  thing,  and  that  she  wondered 
at  his  offering  it."  In  which  resolution  she  was 
comforted  and  commended  by  Adams ;  and  Joseph 
was  obliged  to  wait  patiently  till  after  the  third 
publication  of  the  banns,  which,  however,  he  obtained 
the  consent  of  Fanny,  in  the  presence  of  Adams,  to 
put  in  at  their  arrival. 

The  sun  had  been  now  risen  some  hours,  when 
Joseph,  finding  his  leg  surprizingly  recovered,  pro- 
posed to  walk  forwards ;  but  when  they  were  all 
ready  to  set  out,  an  accident  a  little  retarded  them. 
This  was  no  other  than  the  reckoning,  which 
amounted  to  seven  shillings ;  no  great  sum  if  we 
consider  the  immense  quantity  of  ale  which  Mr. 
Adams  poured  in.  Indeed,  they  had  no  objection  to 
the  reasonableness  of  the  bill,  but  many  to  the  prob- 
ability of  paying  it ;  for  the  fellow  who  had  taken 
poor  Fanny's  purse  had  unluckily  forgot  to  return  it. 
So  that  the  account  stood  thus  :  — 
[235] 


JOSEPH    ANDREWS 


Mr.  Adams  and  company;  Dr. 
In  Mr.  Adams's  pocket 
In  Mr.  Joseph's    ... 
In  Mrs.  Fanny's    .        .        . 
Balance  . 


£  I.  d. 

0  7*0 
0  0  6i  J 
0  0   0 
0  0  0 
0   6   Si- 


They  stood  silent  some  few  minutes,  staring  at  each 
other,  when  Adams  whipt  out  on  his  toes,  and  asked 
the  hostess,  "  If  there  was  no  clergyman  in  that 
parish  .'* "  She  answered,  "  There  was."  —  "  Is  he 
wealthy  .'* "  replied  he  ;  to  which  she  likewise  answered 
in  the  affirmative.  Adams  then  snapping  his  fingers 
returned  oveijoyed  to  his  companions,  crying  out, 
"Heureka,  Heureka;"  which  not  being  understood, 
he  told  them  in  plain  English,  "  They  need  give 
themselves  no  trouble,  for  he  had  a  brother  in  the 
parish  who  would  defray  the  reckoning,  and  that  he 
would  just  step  to  his  house  and  fetch  the  money, 
and  return  to  them  instantly." 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


/ 


[236] 


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